Haus Of Trëc
by letodian-peony
Summary: A collection of pieces based on the songs of Lady GaGa! She is strangely inspiring. Some will be angst-ridden, some romantic, some fluffy, it all depends on the song! Ratings vary on chapter. Slash, K/S
1. Monster

_Monster_

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_AN: `Ello, `ello! I'm back [with still unfinished pieces! D8 ] and I must say, I have no words to explain why I am always so inspired by Lady Gaga, but that woman is just hella crazy over-the-top, so maybe I shouldn't be wondering why and be thanking her! Anywho! Inspired by "Monster" off of "The Fame Monster" by Lady Gaga!

Disclaimer [Just because I already owe money for college, I can't pay for lawyers!]: Plot is mine, not the characters and "Monster" belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: T, for suggestive themes and slash! ;]

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Those eyes, clear and piercing, they could see through anything, including me. Under that heavy glare, trapped in it, it was hard to think, and I stumbled inside my own head. 'Don't look at me that way,' I asked of him silently. 'It's distracting.'

He didn't hear the entreaty, just as I predicted. I continued to stare him down, however, blank-faced, like nothing was amiss, despite the raging discomfort swirling in my stomach at the way those eyes seemed to sift through everything. He didn't say anything, and I retained my control, and said nothing as well. His eyes narrowed, reminiscent of the trial, defiant and in control. I felt as I did then, slightly angry and almost daunted. There was something about the Captain that just pulled everything out and not in a good way.

Something suddenly changed in the blue of his eyes that made it unbearable to look at and I lost our staring contest by ungracefully turning away. If I didn't meet with the Captain's interpretation later, it would be out of character for the man. What I didn't expect was something so immediate, yet I can't anticipate the Captain, as proven on all our planet-side missions.

"You alright, Mr. Spock?" He whispered in his way that had that edge to it which implied some deep emotion, some desire, some passion I always rather preferred directed at any other but me. It was too intense, and the ice blue of his eyes could have sent a shiver down my spine, if I could admit that it affected me.

"Yes." A curt response seemed the most logical in this situation. Facing him again, he approached predatorily, and the application of that adjective drove me back momentarily. He didn't pause in his advance and the subtle aggressiveness of it brought to mind the wolves of Earth, graceful, agile, and terrifyingly effective. Those eyes snapped to mine, and I froze, stuck in analyzing what lurked in that sapphire color.

"Are you sure?" He asked with that same tone, and it was getting dangerous. My hands at the small of my back tensed, I could feel fingernails digging into skin. His eyes remained fixed and I was nearly intimidated by the almost evil darkness that crept into their color, some devious passionate craving.

His breathing became slightly shallower, his eyes narrowed, a smirk spread on his face. I couldn't help but catch every slight movement, even in spite of not breaking the gaze.

"Captain?"

"Always so formal." The words fell from his mouth with the slightest amusement as he stood, clearly violating personal space, our faces far too close to be comfortable, and it was hard to tell what the Captain was getting at, but the violation was dragging on my nerves and I was seconds from losing the strength it took to not force him back less than courteously.

"Always." The words gritted out through clenched teeth. My jaw throbbed with the force, the muscles of my face tense. Slightest traces of discomfort and frustration echoed in the muscles and on my face and I was far from concerned about showing emotion when he stepped even closer.

"What are you going to do about it?" He asked, reading my body language. I kept my jaw tight refusing to open my mouth, unsure of what I could say that the Captain wouldn't turn around and use against me. "I can almost _hear _you thinking." His eyes flashed. Something about it was unsettling. I couldn't help but fall into a memory of something he had heard.

It was before the trial, before the _Kobayashi Maru_, when the news of James Tiberius Kirk was circulating among the professor's, of the genius-level repeat offender, of the worst best student Starfleet has ever had. The rumors and gossip, however, were spread throughout the student body, and sometimes I couldn't help but overhear.

'_That boy is a monster.'_

That was the only time he listened to the gossip. It wasn't loud enough for anyone but the two girls to hear, with me being the only exception. The class was in the middle of individual presentations, but that phrase captivated my human side's unyielding curiosity.

'_He has those _eyes_. Before you can even think, he's got you and you can't get away, and you're not sure you want to. He'll eat your heart. That boy is a monster.'_

That is what she had said.

Standing here, on the edge of shaking apart in frustration, those eyes bore into me, the eyes of a monster.

He licked his lips.

"Can I?" He asked, leaning forward, too close. His hands gripped my hips.

"Remove your hands." The words were more malicious than I intended, but that didn't stop him. Those invading hands slipped around my hips, to my wrists, deftly avoiding contact with my hands.

Still I couldn't look away from those eyes. The eyes of a monster could never be more beautiful.

And yet, as gorgeous as they were, there was something paralyzing about them. From the moment our eyes connected, I felt almost trapped where I stood, almost as if I was weighted down.

Even through the cloth of the blue tunic, I could feel the coolness of his skin as his fingers trailed up my arms, leaving in their wake a peculiar frigidness. Where his fingertips rested, some strange fire burned the skin underneath.

Those fingertips pressed gently against the skin on the back of my neck, pulled me closer to him until our lips met. He became more aggressive then, pulling my bottom lip into his mouth and as he breathed in, it felt as if he sucked the air right out of my lungs. My chest felt as if it collapsed into itself.

He released the captive flesh to press more firmly against my lips. His grip on my neck tightened with one hand as the other found the heartbeat in my side. His hand slid under my shirt, back to the heartbeat and it almost felt as if my heart tried to pull out of my body to rest in the palm of his hand.

I was suddenly unsteady, attempting to retain control and he saw that and pushed me backwards, my back of my knees hitting the mattress, and he shoved again and I was flat on my back. He nearly ripped the tunic off me, pressing his lips where my heart rested. The palm of his hand rested firmly against my stomach as my heart strained. His tongue ran over the skin, his teeth marred it, and my heart, the traitorous muscle, reacted despite my efforts to control it, until I couldn't feel it anymore. I could only feel those lips pressed against my skin, but I couldn't feel my heartbeat.

He ate my heart.

The thought was illogical, but as it crossed my mind, he looked up at me, his lips slightly swollen, more rouged than usual, and still I couldn't feel my heart.

He crawled over me, his lips pressing to my forehead, a human gesture in response to discomfort, a reassurance. Suddenly I couldn't feel anything, I couldn't think straight.

"Spock?" His breath washed over the shell of my ear, cool and numbing.

"Captain?"

"Jim." He corrected, his voice low and rumbling.

"Jim." I repeated. He smiled at me beautifully. It reached those evil eyes of his. My back arched into his hand of a will other than mine, or so I thought. His smile widened and he bent down and kissed me again.

I could only feel where his hands were, where his lips were, where his skin touched mine, and I could barely think.

He was a monster, but I wanted him.

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AN: I really don't like first person! haha, but I wrote it that way because that's how it came to me. :]

Comment with the song you'd like to see next!


	2. Poker Face

_Poker Face  


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_

AN: Second piece inspired by "Poker Face" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: T for language  


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It always felt as if he held all the cards, all the winning cards, though no one could be sure there could be a winner or a loser here. In spite of not knowing the rules of the game, he always seemed to play him so well, and that drove Jim out of his right mind.

Falling on luck and intuition, he knew he was hit with an offense, subtle and indirect, but it hit him, hard, and he was falling under. The final blow would be one hell of a bitch and he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it.

Every part of his body _burned_, craving and he couldn't think about anything else, but he couldn't help but be daunted. In the face of something too placid, too composed, he faltered and hesitated. He had always reveled in knowing all the triggers, the tells and the weaknesses; it was how this was supposed to work. That's how _he_ worked. But he couldn't see through that face, that _poker face_. And it stopped him.

Jim couldn't even be sure if he was interested, if this was a bluff, a well-played move, a way to raise the stakes and before he could fold, to take everything just prove to everyone that Jim wasn't as in control as he thought he was. If he fell, he would fall hard. That would be exactly what that haughty half-Vulcan would want.

But a gamble always paid out better in the end and Jim couldn't help but smile and go all in, because you could never get what you don't give. It was dangerous, thrilling, a game of Russian Roulette with five bullets in the chamber, and the risk was something he couldn't avoid. The adrenaline rush burst through his veins, a rough ride, but always the best.

His skin was on fire, flushed, heated, aching. His eyes glittered with lust. His stomach knotted in anticipation.

Still he couldn't read that face, and for every card that was played, he was further in the dark, unable to read the signs. Jim studied him for the tells, but he was never able to get any ground. He was blind here, and he became more obsessed with winning the game. No one else mattered, just the two of them and he needed to see if he could pull the luck to win this.

Spock seemed to read him easily, something that was hard for Jim to comprehend. He had always been the one that couldn't be read. The tables turning on him dragged him out of his element and only laid him further open. He tried to hide behind his poker face, but it was nowhere as good as Spock's and he could almost go insane knowing his intentions were out on the table, where Spock's motives were still a secret.

But Spock didn't have to love him, he had Uhura, he had so many options, where Jim only had him. He had never met someone who didn't fall apart in his hands, someone so obstinate and strong, indifferent and composed and the challenge made him want the victory all the more. But Jim could very well lose this battle with the odds against him.

There were his faults standing against him at the table, his brash, sometimes utterly thoughtless behavior, his reliance on instinct and downright bat-shit crazy ingenuity, his flirtatious, in-your-face, do-what-thou-wilt attitude that must be listed in a book of Vulcan turn-offs. He was almost sure "James Tiberius Kirk" was listed as the exact _opposite_ of what a Vulcan looked for in a person.

God, thinking about it, if he sat down to think of it, if he were Spock, he wouldn't want to live with himself.

Spock didn't have to love him, and the fact he wanted no one else drove him crazy.

Every little battle he won, every short step to a stable friendship, Spock seemed to look at him with a look in his eyes that told him to get out before he bet everything, to take what he's earned before everything gets taken away. But he couldn't stop from playing the table, going one further, and where he should fold, he took a hit and fell back on sheer luck to play the right cards and win the round to test his luck the next hand.

The stress was giving him headaches, but the payouts were invaluable. The more time he spent with Spock the easier it would get to slowly pick up the cracks in his poker face and he was going to keep playing until he won or was decimated.

He still couldn't see through that poker face of his, but Jim was close. He smiled to himself and got ready for the next hand and he saw the bluff and won another round.

Spock wouldn't kiss or hold him, but the very equivalent was in those eyes, a deep brown, warm, not black like they usually were. He broke through that veneer and couldn't hide the smirk on his face. If they weren't still on the bridge.

But they were.

So he hid behind his own poker face and faced the viewer.


	3. I Like It Rough

_I Like It Rough_

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AN: Third piece inspired by "I Like It Rough" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: M

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He never says it, but I know what he's saying. I know he cares, but I'm not weak. I can't take this delicacy. I'm not made of glass, and his handling me so makes me frustrated, and I shake inside and out. It dims me, wears me out and it's going to drive me out of my mind.

So I lock him out tonight.

I know he can hear me in his mind, on the fragile, glimmering strand that connected us by accident; weak and breakable, just as he views me.

I'm in the bedroom with tissues and when I know he's outside then I won't let him in. I can only think about my hands on my skin, pretending they're his. I drag my fingernails along my stomach, up my chest, wishing they were his perfect nails scratching me up. My other hand gripped my erection fiercely, and I wished it was his superheated skin against me, pulling hard, wrapped around me just hard enough to pull every thought out of my head.

I could feel him, pressed against the edge of my mind, tentative, so barely there. I growled as my back arched, still so frustrated with him. I wasn't mentally strong enough to block him out, and I didn't want to. I wanted him to _feel_ what I wanted, what I needed. I can't be held carefully. I need to be broken in, claimed. I need marks, scratches, bruises. I need to know that someone needs me enough to mark me up, show everyone that I'm theirs. If he isn't that person, his love isn't anything I can't fight.

He's got me wondering why I like it rough.

He can't give it to me. He can't lose control that way. He can't be passionate with me. But I can't go without the pain, without the roughness. It levels everything, brings me to life, proves to me what love is. I need passion, fire, burning, everything he just won't give to me.

But I want him to.

I'm in the bedroom with tissues and when I release, I can hear him at the edge of my consciousness, but I won't let him in.

Every day that passes, I could die. It's a hard life in the world and I need to know that I have something to come back to when I survive. Someone who can make my back arch until the muscles nearly snap, someone who would carve their name in my skin with their hands, someone who can make me theirs.

He's got me wondering why I like it rough.

The need is too much, too strong. I'm afraid that no one will be able to give it to me.

Something claws at the outside of my brain, strong and animalistic, in the faintest of ways, a clever predator and I can't help but give in. It almost hurts and my body trembles under the invisible touch.

The presence vanishes as the door slides open and my vision is still spotted from my fix. I feel hands on my skin, a tongue at the scratch marks, tracing them with fire. I can't help but arch into the touch and I smile when those hands shove me down forcefully.

I run my fingers through his hair, the black silk stands soft against the calluses on my hands. Those perfect teeth sink into my skin, not hard enough to break skin, but so perfectly and it hurt in all the right ways. I couldn't move and I struggled against the hands holding me down, although I knew I was nowhere near strong enough to break their grasp.

His teeth clamp down on my collarbone and I groan in appreciation, though he pauses, unsure what to do with the sound and the trace amounts of blood I can feel slowly oozing from the fresh wound.

"I like it rough."

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AN: First person! Again! I'm shocked. Those muses. Anyways, I spent so long trying to end this. I like the one line of dialogue, I really do. I can't seem to write anything after it! Let me know what you think!


	4. Dance In The Dark

_Dance In The Dark_

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AN: Fourth piece inspired by "Dance In The Dark" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: T for strong language

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Only in the dark. Only ever in the dark.

He can't let him see. He's a mess. He's a mess.

When he's looking, Jim falls apart. He loves him, he does, but he can't give up enough to prove it. He's locked up in a corner of his mind that no one can reach, because he's stressed and such a mess.

Spock hasn't seen all the scars, all the permanent marks that he's screwed up, a lot and often. There were so many.

He wanted to be perfect for him, whole, sane, in working order, not some ragged, passed around, worn-out shell of a man. He wanted to be stable, but he was just so fucked up, he could barely stand on his own two feet.

He had another new scar.

And tonight they were together, but only in the dark. He just couldn't let Spock see.

And when they fought in Spock's controlled way, he couldn't do anything but crawl away, an attempt to find that corner of his mind to hide in. The lights were on and he's falling apart, shaking violently.

No one else could ever see him this way. He didn't trust anyone else to see him so weak, but Spock didn't stay long enough to see the mess he became.

He was falling. He left the lights on.

Another new scar.

He wanted Spock to come back, but he wouldn't beg. As much as he needed him, Jim couldn't let himself admit that he needed Spock. It was too much to own up to. Tomorrow morning, he would be there, like nothing happened, but he would still be falling.

Nothing could catch him because he was too proud to accept help. He needed to give in, to bend, to break his habit. But he could only relinquish control in the dark. If everything came into the light, he would shake apart.

He's not put together well enough to be able to hold up.

But he knows that if he can't let Spock see him, he would lose him forever. There's only so far Spock is willing to go before this all becomes Jim forcing him into dead end waste of time. He demanded too much and gave up so little.

But he loved him.

Only in the dark.

He couldn't help but scream until this throat was hoarse. He tore at his face. He swore at everything that had ever touched him and taken a piece until there was nothing left for him to make sense of anything. He hated the way his mother looked at him like a ghost. He hated that Sam abandoned him. He hated that Frank took out his anger on him. He hated that he had no one. He hated the dark. But he needed it.

He hated being alone. But here he was, in the goddamn _Captain's_ quarters with everything he always thought he wanted, the proof that he was more than a backwards farm boy with a hidden talent for finding danger, but he was still in the dark.

But when Spock can see him, he falls apart.

He's doesn't know what would happen to him if he shook apart. He was too afraid to let himself. Yet he didn't want to fall until he couldn't figure out which direction was up. It was hard to see already. He was lightheaded.

He wanted to call him back, but Jim was afraid that he had pushed too far, waited too long, and missed his chance. He's just a tramp, a mess, and he's still falling.

His voice had given out long ago and his body was tense. He couldn't beg him back if he wanted to. And how could he? He had wasted so much time in his obstinacy, but couldn't Spock tell he was scared? God was he afraid. He was afraid that if Spock could see everything he would realize how messed up he was. If he could keep Spock in the dark, he could never see the scars and the holes, he could love him for what he could show. But he was lying.

His eyes were wide but he couldn't see anything. He felt like a mess. He reached his arms out, trying to feel anything, but he was numb. This is why it only works in the dark.

He felt fire at his wrists, burning and crushing the skin. His back hit the wall. His eyes stung and he still couldn't see. He wanted to get out of the dark. He felt fingertips on his face, he acquiesced desperately and his heart dropped and his mind exploded.

The fire of the blast lit everything. It reached for his corner.

_You can't!_ He cried, trying to dampen the light. It started to recede, it was fading, and he was falling apart. His mind started to cool and he screamed defensively, trying to pull the light back in to stop himself from freezing, from shaking.

_I'll never let you fall apart._

His body convulsed, but strong hands held him, and it felt as if he was holding onto himself. He could see himself fall apart and his knees buckled. He could see the corner, he led the light to it, and all his scars flooded their senses, all the wounds and the words that inscribed themselves in him. The light reached them all. It couldn't heal them, but it swallowed the pain.

He cried and at the same time he wasn't crying. Spock's mind wrapped around him and his eyes shut tightly, reflexively, falling back on one last darkness.

Their lips met and his eyes slid open. He could see the blue of his own eyes though Spock's, so desperately blue and searching, _healing_, the red, blood-shot rim, the pain leaking from his eyes.

So much spread through him, the light filled him, and he could never be without it again.

But his heart beat uncontrollably. He could see him. He held onto Spock with every ounce of strength. Before he could fall apart, strong arms held him together. His heart still raced, and he stumbled back in his head and the dark crept up behind him. His light faded away, becoming dim, a faint presence barely lingering inside his head.

But it was still there.

He had gone too far. He offered everything, and he wasn't sure he should have. There was anger in his head, but it wasn't his and it scared him. He crashed further in the darkness where the light couldn't reach.

He was so stupid. He trembled. He only half-understood what he had given into, and that was dangerous. He took everything this time, he stole his freedom this time and he couldn't give it back. Never. Even if his heart stopped beating right now, he could never give it back. He moaned in agony, his mind ripping itself open, light pouring in again, scalding and powerful, too powerful, and he needed to know what he had done but he was shaking apart again. He was standing alone, and the light flooded in too fast and this could be the end of him.

What had he done?

What had he done?

His body went numb. If he couldn't piece himself together, he had committed the worst atrocity, and his mind continued to rip itself open as an offering to the fire filling him, offering up his traitorous fragments, melting them, and they flowed together. The darkness crashed over him and cooled his molten spirit, finally a whole after so many years, but there were parts that weren't his, things that had come from the light, patches and fragments that were given to him.

His knees shook and he fell. How could Spock have given him anything? He didn't deserve anything. He had nearly ruined his life. But maybe he didn't.

The last tiny slivers of the dark shook apart and broke into nothing and were gone. The blazing sun that invaded him paled, but not to darkness. When he opened his eyes again, the light was still inside him, warming him, and he was whole.

And he would have this light forever.

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AN: Angst. But I love it. And I love this song. The tone of this song was so full of angst I thought. Let me know what you think!


	5. Telephone

_Telephone_

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AN: Fifth piece inspired by "Telephone ft. Beyoncé" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: T for some strong language

* * *

He ignored the incoming message. He was tired and this had grated on his nerves long enough. He needed some time, some space. This was _his_ time. Fuck how this was supposed to work. _Fuck_ communication. He needed a few hours inside his own head, and if most of that time was spent thinking about _nothing_, that was just what he was going to do.

For the first time since the mission started, he had step foot planet-side without the thought of being ambushed by natives or creatures or plants or viruses. It was the first shore leave, and it couldn't have come at a better time.

The last mission couldn't have ended any worse than if he had killed the damn ambassador himself, and Bones was still all over him about the injuries he brought back with him this time. And on top of that, his lady had taken some damage and his First Officer wouldn't leave him the fuck alone about his _diplomatic shortcomings_.

He was minutes from punching out the next person to say a word to him. His hand was already in a fist and his fingernails were boring slightly bloody crescents into the palm of his hand. His muscles were tense and shaking and he was glad Bones was there to shoot looks at everyone that came up to them, silently warning them to turn around and get out of the way. What would he do without Bones, really?

The comm. in his pocket, which Spock _insisted _he take "just in case" was blowing up with all the unanswered messages and if he hadn't drank enough to throw his depth perception off, he would have picked up that damned thing and chucked it over the bar.

When it went off again, he grabbed it, with slight difficulty.

"Stop calling. I don't want to think anymore."

He didn't register the voice on the other end, and he dropped the device onto the bar, the comm. link still open, the voice barely a whisper over the roar of the music. He downed another glass. He left his head and his heart on the _Enterprise_ and he just needed to drown out all the stress.

He should have left the communicator on his desk. He really should have, because when the music died down he could hear someone calling him, calling the Captain, but the Captain wasn't here at the moment. _Call all you want, but there's no one home._

Another glass hit the bar in front of him and he threw that back and he felt Bones' hand on his shoulder, waving the bartender away when Jim called him over again. His best friend handed him the communicator, the link still open. How much patience did that pointy-eared bastard have?

"Stop calling. I don't want to talk anymore."

"Captain."

The word turned him off and he managed to shut the communicator, but it rang again. It better be a mother-fucking disaster going on up there. The next thing he knew he was up on the ship, hanging onto Bones with his last ounce of strength, his head swimming in alcohol. The edges of his vision were black.

He was handed off like a bag of chips and led through the hallways by someone much more capable of supporting his weight. He knew it was Spock. God, if he started lecturing him, he might just go out of his mind. Maybe he would throw up on him.

The next thing he knew, he was being eased onto his mattress, slowly, as if Spock just knew that he got nauseous easily. It was nice. A green color still rose to his face. Suddenly that expression seemed a little offensive and hysterical, and he started laughing, rolling onto his side when he started to cough, followed by gagging. If he learned anything from Bones, he learned not to lie on his back when he was drunk. Too many horror stories of people drowning in their own vomit.

He was pretty sure he scared the half-Vulcan off until Spock returned with a cool cloth and draped it over his forehead. His body started to cool off and his nausea died down a little. He was trembling a little, another side effect of him being drunk, but most people didn't stick around long after the bar fight to see his body reject the poison he filled it with.

He reached out and grabbed a fistful of blue fabric against his better judgment. He just didn't want to be alone. He was afraid that he drank more than he should have, and he really didn't want to die from alcohol poisoning or drowning in vomit. James T. Kirk couldn't go out that way; it was too anti-climatic.

He moved closer to the source of heat, where his hand was still knotted in fabric, most likely stretching it out. The smell of the clothes was soothing, in spite of how foreign it was. The more he breathed it in, the more his stomach settled.

The communicator in his pocket started to go off again.

"Stop calling. Stop calling." He mumbled into the fabric, the noise slicing right through his skull, giving him one mother of a headache. He released his hand from the shirt in his grasp and pulled the communicator out of his pocket to drop it unceremoniously onto the floor, where it rolled under the bed, dampening the noise. He then curled up holding his head in his hands.

Jim was sure his First Officer would take this chance to escape, as much as he hoped he would stay.

"Captain?" The voice was even, as usual.

"What?"

"Are you ill?"

"No shit."

"Would you require the assistance of Dr. McCoy?"

"No. Just chill."

"Chill, sir?"

"Relax. Don't go anywhere, please."

He closed his eyes and groaned when the mattress shifted.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm retrieving the communicator."

If his eyes had been open, he would have rolled them. He heard the familiar noise of the device shutting off and he felt stupid. Why didn't he think of that? He opened his eyes again to see his First Officer moving the chair from his desk towards the bed.

"Are you certain you do not want me to call the doctor?" Spock asked, sitting down in the chair. Jim noticed the P.A.D.D. in his hands.

"When are you _not _working on something?" He asked, sardonically.

"It would be illogical to sit here and do nothing, Captain."

This time, he did roll his eyes.

"Don't you ever just want to do nothing?"

"No. I can't say I ever have."

The intercom on the wall chirped.

"Oh, for the _love of God_!" Jim groaned into the sheets.

"Yes, Doctor?" Spock asked, answering the call.

"The idiot okay?" Bones' gruff voice inquired.

"Yes. Did you expect something to be wrong?"

"Well, you're still there."

Jim had seen the half-Vulcan flinch. Actually _flinch_.

"He asked me to stay."

"And you listened?"

Jim couldn't help but smile into the sheets. He knew he loved Bones' for a reason.

"He seemed to be in distress. I concluded that staying might be more beneficial."

"Yeah, sure. Let me know if he starts turning green." Bones stated off-handedly, shutting down the link. Jim saw Spock's head tilt to the side slightly at the comment at he sat back down onto the chair, resuming whatever he had been working on before.

Hours later, the last drops of alcohol were starting to work out of his system. He had drifted in and out of consciousness but every time he came too, Spock was still there by the bed, working on something. This time, Jim grabbed the P.A.D.D. out of the man's hands. He briefly saw the clock and his jaw dropped.

"You've been here all night." It had been a question in his head, but came out as more of a statement of disbelief out loud. Spock didn't respond and instead just looked at him, with slightly tired eyes. "You should probably leave and get some rest. God, you didn't have to stay all night."

"It is quite alright Captain."

"Jim." He corrected, again.

"Jim." Spock repeated dutifully. "Do you require anything?"

"No, I'm alright. Go get some rest."

Spock merely nodded and left.

Jim watched Spock's back as he left and smiled.

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AN: A more fluffy piece, with some humor. Another song off "The Fame Monster" that I absolutely adore. Lady GaGa and Beyoncé? Love!


	6. Money Honey

_Money Honey_

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AN: Sixth piece inspired by "Money Honey" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: M

* * *

Damn did Jim love the _Enterprise_. He loved walking her halls; he loved the walls, the floors. He loved his chair. He loved the danger she brought, the uncertainty, the new, the outrageous, frightening and overwhelmingly amazing.

He loved his life here. It was mind-blowing and he still couldn't believe that Starfleet had given her to him, in spite of what he had done. But he earned her and this life, and he could live up to his name.

It was astounding, beyond a doubt, made his body tremble in an awe-struck appreciation. But what really got Jim's knees weak, made his whole body quiver and fragile, was his kiss. He could just melt into it. He let everything go when those lips pressed against him. He was nothing but his lover when their lips connected.

At first it shocked him, losing control, but that touch was so delicious. Those hands found every sensitive spot on his skin, made him shiver and beg for more. When it gets rough, when he nearly gets torn to pieces, he could almost cry. It's perfect.

He loved the _Enterprise_, but with those hands on him, he could barely remember his own name. Sprawled out on the sheets, his skin frozen where those hands weren't, on fire where they pressed against him. He always expected to find blisters on his skin. The blaze was too hot and he gasped when the heat encircled his hips.

Fire licked against the jutting bone, along the ridge to engulf him, wrap around him so hot. He lost his mind and felt as if he could fall through the mattress. His vision went white and he left himself in those capable hands. He was held down, and inferno pressing onto his hips, a burning passion trying to escape through his skin met with those hands. His skin glistened with sweat, and he shivered as the salt water evaporated, but he was too hot to feel cold.

That molten tongue worked him expertly, the pressure, the heat, the velvet of that back of that throat pulled his breath right out of him, his back arched, eyes rolling back as he came, hard.

He could barely breathe inside the inferno and those lips pressed against his again, almost forcing air back into his lungs. Fingertips trailed over his sides, delicately, teasing, knotting his stomach, leaving his mind reeling.

He loved a good drink with his friends, but nothing messed him up quite like this. Nothing was better, more intense, mind-blowing, intoxicating as this.

Lips pressed to his temple, trailed along his jaw, to his neck, where teeth sunk into the skin. He couldn't swallow the moan that rose up, couldn't stop the way his hands clawed into those lean, powerful shoulders.

He sought that mouth again, reveling in the passion he could feel through his skin. The feeling was overwhelming. He arched up against bare skin, the more they touched, the hotter he felt, the more ardor, love, intensity. It was so sexy.

He felt him inside, and he wrapped his legs around those thin hips, pounded into the mattress, unable to control himself, unable to stop the noises escaping his throat, unable to reign in the thoughts in his head, unable to let go. The breath in his ear, slowly becoming shallow, unsteady, made his entire body tighten up, wound so tight, so ready to snap. The thrusts into his body began to become erratic, hitting with more force all the right places. He came again as he was filled, so hot and he loved it.

The breath in his ear stabilized quickly. He rolled over onto that hard chest, pressed close, feeling the alien heartbeat, slow and strong against his abdomen, soothing.

He played his fingers over the slightly green-flushed skin, tracing light patterns absentmindedly. There was a hand pressed lightly against his back, beautiful endearments flowing into his skin. He smiled, leaning in closer.

He might have loved the _Enterprise_, but she had nothing on his First Officer.

* * *

AN: This song is so fun to listen to. Shh, Jim is cheating on the _Enterprise_. Don't let her know. ;]


	7. Paper Gangsta

_Paper Gangsta_

* * *

AN: Seventh piece inspired by "Paper Gangsta" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: T for language

* * *

It was past midnight and the room was dark and empty. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he should have known better.

Midnight had come too fast.

He couldn't take his mind off the emptiness. It was jarring and he couldn't help but feel betrayed. Even through years of quelling his emotions, boxing and locking them away, he felt betrayed. And it hurt.

This wasn't going to work.

Betrayal was painful. It made him angry, made him upset. It made him feel too much. The pursuit of this relationship was illogical. He would never get more than this, regardless of how much he invested. The Captain would never give him anything other than this half-hearted arrangement with mutual benefit on the surface.

If he ever intended to commit, he wouldn't desire this. This was wrong, empty, just like the room, a silent reminder that it meant more to him than it did to that Captain. He was cognizant of that fact, felt it every time the Captain turned his glance away, refused to see him, as if seeing it made him realize what he had gotten into. It was hollow, and he never expected that to hurt as much as it did.

When the doors slid open at twenty minutes to three, he had already decided. When he felt those cool hands on the hem of his shirt, his eyes narrowed, his fingers closing around those thin wrists. He saw the look on the Captain's face, a combination of shock and confusion.

"I think it's time to terminate this relationship."

"What?" The Captain's voice was defensive, hurt, like a wounded animal. "I've only been late-"

"That is not the issue, Captain."

"Damnit, Spock."

He couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow at the statement. He knew what had gotten the Captain riled up, but he couldn't bring himself to say the man's name, even now. It wasn't for the sake of formality; saying that name meant owning up to what he was losing.

The silence built up between them. The Captain wouldn't look at him, but he knew the man was losing his patience, breaking down; he could feel the wrists, held captive in his hands, shaking.

"What is it?" The Captain snapped, those bright blue eyes, dampened by his anger, locking with Spock's guarded, space-black eyes. "What did I do?"

"I am not certain what you want out of this endeavor, but I am certain that your interests and mine are not the same, and the most logical course of action would be to end this."

"Can you ever just say what you mean?" The Captain shouted, wrangling his wrists out of the hold on them. "And how the _Hell_ would you know what I wanted? All high-and-mighty, get off my case." The Captain's body was trembling in anger.

"It isn't hard to conclude from the way you've been treating this that you have no real investment in it. And since that is that case, I have no reason to stay."

"You think I've been _playing you_?"

"I do not understand."

"Like _Hell_ you don't." The Captain's mouth shut, lips a tight line, as if he was holding in the words.

"If you're implying that I believe that you have not been truly interested in me, then you would be correct." He stated, his voice more robotic than usual. When the Captain only stared at him, his expression unreadable, he continued. "For the entire length of our relationship, you have shown no interest in being with _me_. It seemed as if I had been just a logical alternative. That arrangement is not beneficial to me."

The Captain's expression became fierce and he stepped closer, their faces centimeters apart.

"Don't even _go _there."

"Where am I going?"

"Goddammit!" The Captain screamed, retreating back a few steps, holding his head in his hands. "Fuck you. Stop fucking around."

"Excuse me?"

The Captain locked their eyes again. He was furious.

"How can you even _claim_ that I was acting distant? You must have written the fucking book on how to show no interest. I didn't know how to react to someone so passive."

Spock still hadn't moved. He just watched the Captain pace.

"What the Hell was I supposed to do? I don't know how to act around you! I always offend you somehow. I don't listen, I'm impulsive, I don't know how to be something that doesn't drive you crazy."

Spock remained silent, unsure of how to respond.

"Say something! You _started_ this fight." The Captain accused, the look in his eyes slightly frantic. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"I desire proof that this is as important to you as it is to me."

"How important is this to you?" The Captain asked, right in his face again, but his voice of void of any emotion.

He couldn't find the words. He reluctantly met the Captain's eyes with his lips pressed tightly together. The Captain stared him down. It was hard to bear.

"Well?" He prodded.

He still didn't back down, but he was scrambling uncharacteristically for words.

"I need to know that what you express is real." His eyes narrowed at his own statement, an illogical sentence that was semantically null. "I need to know that I can depend on you to follow through."

He stood under the full force of the Captain's scrutiny, awaiting anxiously the words he could see forming in the Captain's eyes, lingering on the tip of his tongue. He could feel time drag.

"If it wasn't real," The Captain started, pausing to collect himself. "I wouldn't be here fighting with you. If I didn't care, why would I waste my time?"


	8. Starstruck

_Starstruck  


* * *

_

AN: piece inspired by "Starstruck ft. Space Cowboy & Flo Rida" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: M  


* * *

He rolled his eyes again. He had no interest. His roommate however, kept nudging him out of falling asleep, something about hating having those 'death black' eyes looking anywhere in his direction; gave him the shivers or something. Jim didn't care. He was beyond paying attention today. It had probably been a bad idea to go out all night, but how the Hell else was he supposed to liven up a Tuesday?

He had dark circles under his eyes, and such a short amount of energy that nothing his roommate could do would wake him up when he passed out this time.

He was slammed against the wall, hard, felt every vertebra roll and connect with the paneling. There would be bruises there later. That was so hot. A body was flush against his, hips rolled seductively against his, bringing him to life. Hands moved up from his hips, pulling his shirt over his head. Lips connected with the side of his neck, sucked on his pulse. His back arched.

Slam. He was pushed back against the wall. He was not in control here.

The fingers on his skin were hot, too hot, and they knew him too well. They pressed into his skin just right, played across the taut skin of his chest, counted his ribs, felt the ones that had been broken and set improperly, grazed his nipples, hard, tight. The light touch made him jump, lean into the touch, but a strong hand pressed against the centre of his chest, held him against the wall with no effort.

Those lips found his, that tongue like fire invading his mouth, sliding against his teeth, wrestling with his own tongue, fierce and controlling, powerful, stronger than he was. The fingers of the hand not holding him up continued their exploration of his bared skin, slowly tracing patterns to the front of his jeans, popped the button open expertly, lean fingers pulling the zipper down, the sound lost to his ears as he was intoxicated by the sound of their breaths, the panting, the small noises rising out of his throat, embarrassing and amazing.

Those talented fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his boxers, wrapped around him tightly, stroked him deliciously.

He fought against the hand on his chest, his entire body trying to arch onto that figure, lean, strong, his owns hands roaming over the chest, the arms, the back of the person that had him so star-struck. No one had ever touched him like this, made him forget everything. He didn't even remember his own name. This felt too good. It was better than anything. He couldn't remember having ever been with someone this perfect, someone who knew exactly where to touch him. He struggled in his head, trying to remember who this was. He needed this again.

The hand wrapped around him worked him faster, and the friction was amazing. His hips bucked into that hand, hot as fire around him. His eyes were rolling back into his head, vision white. He was so close.

His hands travelled up that neck, smooth as silk, pulse raging, into the short hair, down along an ear. A gracefully _pointed _ear.

There was a shove at his shoulder. It was jarring. His mind reeled, spinning, working back, filtering out the sensations. The shove came again, harder and his eyes snapped open. He glanced over to his roommate, who had this look in his eyes that just screamed 'I regret having sit next to you,' and inclined his head pointedly, silently telling him to turn around with wide eyes.

He hesitantly turned to see the professor, face blank, but eyes filled with the slightest amount of disapproval and _confusion_?

His entire face felt red hot, blood rushing to his cheeks. He prayed for an aneurysm.

Spock's head inclined slightly to the right.

"I'd like to speak with you after class, Cadet Kirk."

And when the professor was back at the front of the class, Jim had finally let out that breath he had been holding in.

"How loud?" He whispered, leaning in close to his roommate.

"_Loud_."

Damn.

* * *

AN: If this happened in one of my classes, I would die laughing. Awk~ward~


	9. Bad Romance

_Bad Romance_

* * *

AN: Because this piece was on its way! Inspired by "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga! Thank you everyone who's been reading! [No, I am not done yet!]

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: K+

* * *

It was illogical, but he desired it all. He wanted everything for as long as he could take it, unsure as to when this would all fall apart, it's inevitable nature, however difficult that was to accept.

He wanted those hands, the fire that spread inside of him, that all-consuming _disease_ that ate away barriers.

Most of all, he wanted _love_. As impossible as it was to hope for, in spite of logic, he desired that most of all. To the point where it consumed him, just like that touch.

There was something to being with the Captain, with James, _Jim_, that just held this appeal, this drama, that made it so irresistible, the idea of having something, claiming something, being able to do things to made the Captain want him too.

They collided like stars, hot and fierce, destructive, and there was something to that, something Spock couldn't understand, but they gravitated to each other, more powerful than anything he had ever felt, something he only barely regret feeling. But the touch of that hand, that kiss, they made him forget who he was, even if he still refused to show it.

But passion burns out, fades, and soon, there would be left no novelty in their relationship for the Captain. But he, the half-Vulcan, he wanted the Captain, desired him, _needed_ him on a level he couldn't understand, some sort of stabilization, a refuge. He needed this romance, however strained and terrible it was.

He wanted love, but most importantly, it needed to be Jim's. He needed that obstinately, grating, impulsive, passionate supernova, something that drew him in and ravaged him, because true to the nature of his ancestors, emotions were too encompassing, too powerful, and if he was going to let go, he wanted to receive what he could give, and the only person that could offer him that was his Captain.

There was nothing about this was right. So many rules were broken for something that could barely stand by itself. Their connection was weak at best, flawed, shallow. It was illogical, broken, and one-sided, but he couldn't help but desire what it could offer. It was a bad romance, threatening to take everything and give nothing back.

It hurt that he couldn't know what Jim was thinking. As much as he needed to know, his entire being was against violating that sanctity. But they were running out of time. He was starting to crack, and their relationship weighed on him. He couldn't handle the way it brought everything out of him. It made him feel weak.

Those hands were on his back, working out the knots, the knots caused by those hands. He buried his face on his folded arms, feeling too human, but too tired to care. He sighed, almost inaudibly, fingers massaging his neck carefully.

"What's bothering you?"

The words cut the silence open and left him without anything to say.

"You can tell me."

"Jim," he whispered, the name still sending an imperceptible shiver up his spine. There was so much on this. A bad romance, but he loved it none-the-less, loved Jim. He would take everything, would suffer retaliation, but they couldn't be friends, not anymore.

"Spock." The voice at his ear was soft, diffident, something he was so unfamiliar hearing. "I love you."

Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he thought.


	10. Summerboy

_Summerboy_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Summerboy" by Lady Gaga!

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: K

* * *

Shore leave was always a cunning lie wrapped up in a gift. It promised a lot of things but fulfilled but one pledge; the one that always left more questions than answers and not enough time to extract the necessary information.

It was no different this time around, even though he was oblivious to this.

The planet was cool, sunny, beautiful. It reminded him of all the places on Earth he had always wanted to get to, Hawaii, Sicily, those gorgeous locations with beaches and sun and everything he had always wanted and never seen, having grown up in Iowa, and when he was finally old enough to make it out of his hometown, he had been far too drunk to notice what had been around him. The few years previous to his joining the academy where a blur of bar fights, drunken wanderings, concerned calls from his mother, a sense of loss and a feeling he had no where else to be and figured if he was drunk enough, he could forget everything he had given up.

But here, the golden rays of a sun warmed his skin, the heat crawling inwards and lighting him on the inside. The sound of water rushing onto a shore echoed in his head. A light breeze rustled trees and soft, murmured voices floated on the light wind, wrapping around him.

This short summer would be all he could have for some time and he had every intention to take everything he could in another subconscious attempt to repair holes left by his previous unfulfilling lifestyle that took more than it gave.

His eyes, shining bright cerulean in the perfect weather, danced over the bodies of the other people gathered around the few buildings on the small island. Bones, standing off to his left somewhere, already had a drink in hand, chatting up some tanned brunette. He smiled inwardly and took his leave of the good doctor, knowing full well his departure was masked easily by the twinkling tones of the brunette.

He couldn't help but search with his eyes, drinking it all in hungrily. There was a sense of serenity here he hadn't felt in the longest time. Finally, tension rolled off his back in smooth waves and he could only feel the warmth on his skin, the breeze in his hair, the sand underneath him and a wonderful sense of relaxation that hadn't kept him company in some time.

Some tall blonde found him out, her bright, lime-green eyes assessing him, as if he might not be worth the effort. A brilliant smile flashed across his face, leaning closer to her. A smile of her own found her lips and she closed the distance and led him away.

He had been unaware of eyes on him except for hers and the thought never crossed his mind.

The morning following, they parted ways. They both knew what this had been about and he was grateful to her in some understated way, thankful that he wasn't the one who needed to wake up early and leave. She had beat him to it. When he saw he later that day, sipping a martini as green as her eyes, hidden behind wide, dark sunglasses, he could help the light smile that bubbled up.

Nothing about this was permanent. He wouldn't remain here long, and nothing here would leave a mark. He didn't even know her name, nor did she know his, and that was perfect.

She hadn't been the only one to proposition him, and who was he to turn down such a lovely and enticing offer. About six days into the leave, he couldn't count the girls on one hand and couldn't give you a name to a face. Bones clapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly and remarked how the other men were seething in jealousy. Bones could only laugh, knowing his friend too well.

The eighth day was uneventful. He stayed by himself in his room, sleeping in for the first time in months, and when he woke up, he was met with the familiar calming sounds of the ocean and the breeze.

But this time, there was something edging it's way into the calm relaxation that had been his companion for little more than a week. It brought a green haze just behind his eyes, green like the blonde's eyes, and the thought of her deepened the color. He couldn't put his finger on the feeling and when he focused on it, it vanished quickly. He brushed the incident aside and slid out of bed.

Walking along the boardwalk, he watched the sunlight dance on the waves, a crystalline blue, clear right down to the pale sand, warm and inviting. He waded in waist deep and let his mind wander as he fell back and rested back onto the water, the waves holding him up as his eyes slid closed.

Jealousy.

The feeling was jealousy. But he had no reason to feel it. When the color slowly crept around his senses, he saw the emotion wasn't his. It felt alien to him and he tried to push it out and his acknowledgment of it made it disappear again.

When he met up with Bones later that evening, he said nothing about the feeling. He strayed away from the other patrons, sticking only to familiar company and the jealous pang faded considerably, though it still haunted around the edges. Bones noticed his change in behavior, quick as he ever was. He met questions with clever evasion, though his good friend saw through the ruse. The good doctor pressed a little harder and he opened up to him as he was so accustomed to.

"Are you feeling guilty?" Leonard asked apprehensively, looking him up and down.

He replied honestly that he had no reason to. He hadn't been unfaithful, nor had he lied to them. They all knew this was a summer thing, one beautiful moment that quelled desire and need, a quiet surrogate that knew its place. In his case, he didn't have the faintest idea what the meetings where a proxy for, but his subconscious just played its cards knowingly, even if his conscious mind questioned. He had too many back-ups and fail-safes that the question wasn't worth asking. Matters of a personal nature for him were far too painful to deal with on a waking mind and so he slept through that mild heartbreak.

Bones scowled in his way of showing concern and rested a hand on his shoulder knowingly. He didn't say much else, but he told him to stop walking through this with his eyes closed. He knew he needed to, but hearing made it al the more obvious.

He was going nowhere fast.

He excused himself, pretending not to hear the sigh of his best friend. He met another woman that night, her hair long and dark. Her eyes sparkled in agreement, knowing what he wanted and they got lost and he brought her to his room.

He woke up and she was not around. Another substitute come and went.

The fatal pang of a sadness that wasn't his, but his to bear rang through him and he rested his hand over his heart as if to prevent the organ from ripping away from him. He took a deep breath and was unaware he had held it in until his heart strained underneath his palm.

He sat up in the bed, sheets slipping coolly away from him and a chill ran up his spine. He ran his hands over his face and dropped his arms heavily in front of him. This had turned into less of what he had wanted. There was still a week remaining, but he couldn't carry on this way.

He collapsed back onto the bed, the pillow cradling his head and his remorse, and the rippled undertone of anger that welled up in him. He draped his forearm over his eyes and merely listened. Rain drizzled lazily outside. The ocean stirred with more force and he found himself meandering absent-mindedly into the water against his better judgment.

The wind whipped the water against his bared chest as the waves crashed around his hips. He let his hands skim the unsettled waters, glancing forward into the horizon, the sight more daunting as powerful waves surged out further, the aftermath rocking him gently. He let himself collapse and be tossed around by the ocean, the fierce rocking lulling him away to another world where something else flooded him inside with a sense of dread that could only be a belated conscience warning against his irrational and hazardous predicament.

He let the soothing voice, however slightly frantic it was, race through him as water pushed and pulled him. At one point, he was pulled under, and the dull roar above him desensitized him to everything and he only had the energy to think.

His mind ambled through a world that wasn't his and held in its hands something substantial, heavy, hot and fiery to the touch. It was unsettling, but he continued his exploration. He couldn't help his natural curiosity as it drowned out the voice in his head. He couldn't hear anything anymore. His chest tightened painfully, but he was preoccupied.

When a tight grip wrapped around his arms and pulled him from the water, he was brutally aware of the sting of saltwater in his nose, pouring like acid down the back of his throat. He coughed violently and sagged back in the grip, trying to get back to the paradise in his head but remained unsuccessful as he was dragged from the turbid, vehement water, no longer as clear as it once had been.

When Bones' angry voice filled him up, he rolled away from the sound, the act of nearly drowning filling his head with a migraine as fierce as the storm and a strong sense of loss. The doctor continued on his rant, even knowing that he might not even be listening. Stubborn as a mule, and compassionate to a fault could be the only way to describe his good friend.

There was another presence in the room, far more tepid and such the polar opposite of the doctor that he gravitated towards it, only to be pushed back. He felt as if he was physically moved, despite that he hadn't been touched.

His sun had gone down and his summer was ending. When Bones finally gave up the ghost, he departed with an exasperated huff, his footsteps falling hard on the wooden walkway.

The edge of the bed dipped tentatively and he fought the urge to curl closer to the heat that reminded him so much of his sun. He had been chilled to the bone and shivered slightly as if to confirm it. A long, drawn out sigh parted from him, the breath warming his hands, but it wasn't enough.

His back ached and he arched his spine, feeling the bones and muscles shift stiffly under his skin. Stretching his arms out forward, his fingertips lightly grazed skin, soft and heated. He reached out with more intention and took the hand into his, feeling the flinch that came before it jumped from his grip and out of his reach.

The small tingling feeling still echoed in his skin and rushed up his arm to his heart where the organ seemed to groan under the stress and forced a painful feeling out through his chest and his throat. He couldn't control the noise, and in honesty, could barely hear it over the roar that still echoed in his head.

He felt the figure next to him jump at the sound, moving away from him, far out of his grasp as if afraid of what he could transmit. He rolled onto his back and groaned, joints and muscles still aching from the lactic acid that had settled. His eyes fell open weakly and fixated on the ceiling, tracing patterns and words on the pale white, following the shadows that crawled across the canvas. He imagined his Eden there, far less vivid than it had been before.

It was beautiful because it was exotic. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The shade of red a color he never knew to exist, powerful and endearing and foreign. He couldn't feel, only see. He wondered what it was like. Was it warm? He could see a bright sun in the sky. He wished he knew what it felt like under it. The rocks melted away, the red draining to a dull grey and whipped back and forth, far from what he wanted to see.

Tossed back and forth, he saw someone wearily fading into the movement and he tried to call out, but his voice failed him and he rushed forward and gripped the figure, pulling him up and looked into the glazed blue eyes, which he recognized as his own, staring back at him, soulless and he let go and tried to get back but couldn't move.

He snapped back at the feeling of soft hands on his face, gentle words in his ear he couldn't understand. His mouth felt dry and he shook his head, trying to clear away the haze to look up into dark eyes, warmed underneath, flashing, briefly, the most beautiful shade of brown.

He closed his eyes instinctively and when they opened, he was alone. A desperate noise caught in his throat and he tossed. Leonard had been just outside and came in, trying to settle him. He felt on the verge of tears and wished he knew what this all meant.

The rest of the week closed quickly and gold clouded him, the cool thrumming of his lady reverberating through him. He felt hollow as he glanced around, seeing everyone so busy. The screen in front of him was filled with the retreating planet, beautiful, but so damning and he looked away harshly and shied away from the thought of the ocean, the sun, knowing that his own light had set and he couldn't find it again.

He turned in his chair and studied his First Officer's back intently. His summer was over and winter had taken its place. He saw the Vulcan's posture stiffen, and he drew his eyes away and thought about something else.

A voice drew his attention and he turned towards that.

Isolated for a moment, he let the smallest of sighs escape him, leaning back in the chair.

"Is something the matter, Captain?" Came the level, cold tone of his First Officer, just behind his right ear.

"No." He replied dimly, eyes fixed on something straight ahead.

He held his tongue, and it seemed that his First seemed complacent with his vague, meaningless answer. He bit his lip to trap a small noise rising in his throat.

Even though they were close, he couldn't feel that heat, and his eyes darkened in response. His summer had left.

* * *

AN: So _that _ended less sweetly than you probably expected. If this little drabble, you feel, needs something else, say so in a review!


	11. Boys Boys Boys

_Boys Boys Boys_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Boys Boys Boys" by Lady Gaga! I must say though, this thing sort of ran away from me here, and I find it really bizarre.

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: M

Warnings: Non-con

* * *

Hey there baby. The words echoed awkwardly in his head. The thought had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go, but he clapped his hand over his mouth just in case they attempt escape. It had been known for the filter between his thoughts and his mouth malfunctioned often, and this was one thought he'd rather not have to regret saying out loud.

It didn't even matter that he was alone, well, Spock was there, but that was just like being alone. It was just so weird, and saying out loud would only accentuate that fact. He tried to figure out why the thought came to him _now_. He couldn't put a finger on the origin and instead turned his eyes to the P.A.D.D. in front of him, hopefully boring the thought out of his mind with the inane report.

It worked for the most part, his awkward feeling a dull buzz in the back of his mind, but he slumped in the chair a little more and yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. The small noise caught Spock's attention.

"It is getting late." His First Officer stated, although there was almost an inquiring tone to it. He wasn't sure how to respond to that tone.

"I guess." He fumbled. He rubbed his eyes with the butts of his palms to keep himself awake, the motions rather harsh and his eyes watered. He had never really noticed how calloused his hands were until now. The P.A.D.D. resting on his leg started to fall, but before he could even react, Spock caught it and placed it on the table. "Guess that means it's time to stop." He joked, standing up and stretched, feeling his vertebra separate and hearing them crack, his arms reaching over his head. He let out a small groan at the stiffness. Spock's head titled ever so slightly to the right in question, even though he said nothing.

He could feel those eyes watching, _studying_, him.

He sighed quietly and padded over to his closet, peeling off his shirt and tossing it in with his other laundry, pulling a T-Shirt on for respect of his guest. Spock stared at him again like a fascinating experiment. He excused himself to the bathroom where he changed into a pair of jeans. Hell, if he knew anything about these reports, he still had hours to go before he could really be finished and he'd rather be more comfortable and out of uniform, since it clung a little too tight.

Again he was met with silent analysis, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes when he fell into his chair.

"Something on your mind?" He asked, breaking the hard silence. Spock didn't say anything and he just heaved another sigh and picked the P.A.D.D. back up, continuing to read through, marking in his memory what he needed to reference in his reply.

When he thought he wouldn't get caught, he stole glances at his First, whose eyes turned that analytic intensity toward the report, and his shoulders lifted lightly, the burden of that gaze fading from memory. He stared longer than he should have because he got caught.

"Is there something you wanted to say, Captain?"

He found that he hadn't heard a single word. To be more specific, he hadn't _understood_ the words that left those lips. He heard the tone, low and quiet, felt it inside him. But he didn't hear the question. He stuck to stare stupidly at his First Officer, hoping, rather illogically, that perhaps he might be able to guess what he had asked.

"No." He ventured, a shiver running up his spine as their eyes remained locked. His fingers were thrumming against the P.A.D.D. nervously. Spock seemed dissatisfied with the answer, but didn't prod further, just maintained their eye contact. The intensity of his shook Jim on the inside, even if it only reflected outwardly as a nervous twitch of his fingers.

He looked away quickly and tried to focus on the report, but it was removed from his hands gently and placed on the desk. He took to chewing on the inside of his cheek before he met Spock's eyes again.

"Are you not feeling well?"

The tone was enticing. The fact there _was_ a tone to that voice outside of dull accommodation or disinterest piqued his interest. He brushed off the query, however, and reached forward to grab something off the desk. He felt a hand wrap around his wrist and his heart stopped.

He wasn't touching him, right? Wasn't there an unwritten rule about touching?

But the fiery grip clamped tighter around, and he could feel the bones shift slightly under the touch.

"I'm _fine_." He emphasized, trying to free himself, to no avail. "Let go of me. What are you doing?" He asked, the slightest panic leaking into his words and his inner voice, confident and arrogant to a fault, tried to stomp that emotion out quickly.

The grip remained persistent and a wave rose up in the back of his mind, crashing violently, and yet softly, into his mind. The hand on him was hot hot, burning, and in spite of the heat, he felt goosebumps rise up along his arms.

He wasn't really sure what was going on, but he couldn't help but admit he was interested. Hell, he was on the edge of his seat, most literally, waiting for something else to happen, but his wrist was released and he sat back, trying to hide his disappointment.

His eyes fell onto Spock's hands, the one that touched him wrapped protectively in the other as if he had been burned. There was a slight tremble and he couldn't hide the smile. But when he locked eyes with Spock again, his smile fell instantly at the feral look in those dark eyes.

"Hey. You grabbed me." He offered in his defense, holding his hands up, ready to shield his neck, not that he could expect to fight off the Vulcan if this was heading in that direction, and he could only hope he would be able to reach Bones before his First Officer killed him. Or something.

"I am aware." His First growled. Yes. _Growled_. As in the sound that never meant anything good was going to happen. Completely despite the fact of how sexy it was. He really shouldn't be feeding his libido right now.

His whole body tingled. He shivered slightly and stood, backing away slowly, as if he was trying to evade a wounded animal, prepared to strike. He was caught fiercely, both arms held captive in a too strong grip and he was only thankful that his neck had been spared. He was pushed back just as forcefully and he stumbled back into the room, falling over onto the bed, which he hadn't actually bothered to make this morning. It still smelled of last night and his heart stopped. He had meant to change the sheets.

He was ripped from his reverie when his shoulders were pressed down into the mattress and closed his eyes waiting for the grip to reach his neck and his fingers twitched toward the console next to the bed, but a strong hand pinned his down firmly and his last means of escape was thrown out the window.

His throat closed in panic and he couldn't say anything. The constriction hurt and his eyes flew open, his free hand reaching his neck defensively, finding that there was nothing there. Spock's hands were tied up with restraining him.

"Is this your way of showing concern?" He croaked, trying to lighten the situation, still trying to figure out what had gotten his First all riled up in the first place.

"No." Came the curt reply, dark eyes searching his for something.

"Then would you care to explain, _Commander_?" He dropped to rank pulling, hoping that would bring some sense into the situation. Instead it seemed to work against him.

"You really should watch what you think." Spock stated, darkly. "_Captain_." He added, facetiously.

"What?"

"You may have weak psychic abilities, _Captain_," Okay, he was really getting annoyed with that now. "But you are mentally strong, and you're _projecting_."

Projecting? What?

His eyes got wide when it hit him across the head forcefully. He could only imagine what he was exuding that had caused this.

"At first, you merely seemed distraught, and I caught your hand on impulse. What happened after that." Spock concluded vaguely, tightening his grip. He didn't finish his sentence and Jim lingered on that instead of what had happened last night and he caught himself as the image came back and he shook his head. "Fascinating."

He tried to think about something else. He thought about a band, the band graphically represented on his T-shirt, the first band he ever saw in concert. He never even liked them. He bought the tickets to impress a girl, oh how naïve, and she nearly cried when he handed them to her. He had definitely _not_ gotten his money's worth out of them though. She kissed him, Hell, they made out under the bleachers at their school after that, but she just 'wanted to be friends' after that, and they never talked except for that one time she called to ask him to bring him something she had left in his car.

But for being his first attempt, he got pretty far. He had nearly gotten her shirt off that night on the field. Nearly.

He heard a low noise in his ear and something pull over his head. He felt hot hands on his skin and shuddered. He had never been one to be manhandled, but in this moment, he could give in. Whatever this was, his conscious mind tried to claim it as nonconsensual, threw empty threats around of being submit to court martial and mutiny and a word even his subconscious mind didn't want to approach.

In spite of his protests, however, images flashed in his eyes, sensations travelled along and through his skin and he reacted, against his will, he wanted to add. When his back arched, when his mouth dropped open in a silent scream, when his body went numb and mind dim and dizzy as blood rushed elsewhere, that was completely _not his fault_.

The moan, that wasn't his.

But the hands felt too good. They reached where they shouldn't.

"Stop sending conflicting thoughts." The deep husky voice above him warned and the hands vanished. It was almost painful the way his back arched to find them. He tried to explain that away too.

He didn't know what he was _sending_ and he wished he'd shut up.

Whatever heat that was pressed up against him, because it was _not _Spock, pulled away and he was alone again.

What the Hell?

He couldn't feel any part of himself. His arms felt heavy, his legs like lead. It almost felt psychotic or dramatic. He knew himself to be neither, but the current situation had his mind reeling so hard that he couldn't stop it.

He needed to find something to still himself and figure out what the Hell was going on.

He tried to play it off as a huge representation of his imagination, a hallucination, maybe he had another space virus. But no, the sensations on his skin still lingered, tingling and over sensitive that where the air pushed through the vents made his skin feel raw and he longed for something to cover up those weaknesses with gentle hands. When he shivered again, he needed heat.

He managed to sit up in time to see the retreating form of his First.

"What a god damn minute there, Mr. Spock." He called ferociously. His First Officer stopped but didn't turn and he could see the shaking, even from here. "You're going to explain what the _Hell_ just happened."

"I need to go."

"I don't think you do." He replied, acid tainting his voice, making it hard and violent. When he reached out, having walked over from the bed, his hand burned as it held Spock, fire transmitting even through the fabric. "Are _you _not feeling well?" He asked, turning Spock's question back at him.

"No." The word sounded desperate. Jim's eyes narrowed and he forced his First Officer around.

"What's wrong?"

There was no answer this time. He hadn't been aware of how close they had been until the distance was closed. He felt a brand new fire race through him painfully. It was frightening and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what was going on, and he desperately tried to think of something to help Spock, though he came up blank.

"I should get McCoy." He stated, more to himself than to Spock and the growl came at his ear again.

"No."

Okay. Hell. He was scared now. Really, seriously worried for his well-being. He tried to take a step back but he was trapped in a deadly embrace where the emotion that lingered in it was horrible, overshadowing another's fear and desperation. Too much was being transferred through his skin. He felt as if the membrane could just rip apart at the magnitude of sensations struggled through.

Fear. Pain. Lust. Desperation. Pleading. Begging. Shame. Fear. Need.

"I had miscalculated." There was strain in that normally serene voice.

"What's wrong? What can I do?" He begged, suddenly afraid for the well-being of his friend. Had something infected him? He feared that they needed to get the doctor, _now_, as a matter of fact. He didn't want to lose him. No.

Spock didn't say anything. He tried to back away. Jim gave him space, attempting again to contact McCoy. He managed to get patched through and had nearly asked him to haul ass when Spock noticed and shut the link, still shaking.

"No." He whispered.

A feeling of shame that wasn't his, flowing into his skin where that hand rested on his own, overwhelmed him. Spock wanted this to be a secret. But it couldn't be. Not when he was so worried. And it didn't matter. He would bet money that McCoy would be here within minutes anyways, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

Spock's shoulders fell slightly and he hid his face. Jim took a step closer and found that to be a bad idea as he was thrown up against the wall, pinned there. The door to his quarters rushed open and he heard the familiar sound of a hypo-spray echo in the silence as Spock collapsed.

"That's not going to work for long. His metabolism is going to burn that off in barely a half an hour if I think I know what's going on."

Jim ignored orders not to touch and moved Spock his bed, unwilling to let him just lay there on the floor.

"Explain it to me. What the _Hell_ is going on?!" His voice was strained and frantic.

"It's a biological imperative."

"Yeah. That doesn't mean much. You said we don't have much time. Stop fucking around." He replied, annoyance thick in his voice. Bones jumped at the tone.

"It might be caused by the destruction of the planet." The good doctor mused. "His genes are forcing him into an early mating cycle."

Jim's eyes widened.

"It's dangerous to be here. When he wakes up, there's no saying what he can do. He won't be thinking rationally." Spock had definitely not considered the fact that McCoy knew more about Vulcans than anticipated.

"Then what do we do? Run? That hardly seems like handling the situation." Jim answered, gruffly.

"Jim. Do you not understand what I'm saying?" Bones asked, his voice nearly raising an octave in frustration. "He could really hurt you."

"What do you suggest then?" He snipped.

"I don't know." Bones admitted. "I don't know what to do. We need to do something. If we don't, he'll _die_."

"What?" It was Jim's voice this time that nearly screeched. Spock was _not_ going to die.

"Jim. I don't know what to say. There really isn't anything to say." Bones shifted in his seat. "I'm not comfortable, as you CMO and as your best friend, to let you stay here. I know you don't want to see him get hurt, but there isn't much we can do now. We're too far from the colony." The doctor stated dejectedly.

"What are our options?"

"He needs someone to bond with." McCoy stated off-handedly, glancing over Jim's shoulder to assess if Spock was regaining consciousness.

"Okay."

"What?" Bones asked incredulously.

"I said 'okay'." Jim, too, glanced over his shoulder. "I'll do it."

"Do you even know what the Hell you're talking about?"

"No." He admitted honestly. "But if that's all we have, I'll do it."

"He could _kill_ you. And if you're not compatible, God, I don't even know."

"I think we'd be compatible." Jim responded absent-mindedly.

"_What_?"

"Before. Before you got here. I could _feel_ what he was thinking. I think, if that means anything, we'd be compatible."

"God, Jim. You know how to find trouble anywhere, don't you?"

"Seems to be a skill."

McCoy sighed heavily.

"If it's gotten to this point, he must have been suffering it for at least a day or so."

"That would explain the weird way he was acting before."

"I'm not sure I'm interested in the details." McCoy shuddered. "Here." He stated, handing over a handful of various medical supplies. "If you're really stupid enough to go through with this, you'll need these."

The good doctor then spent the new few minutes going over exactly what each item was, what it was good for and how to use it. Some of the injuries McCoy was throwing around made Jim start to almost regret his decision. He started to get antsy. Especially when Bones warned him that he wasn't exactly sure what could happen, but he knew that bonding was permanent. _Permanent_. As in, if this happened, he would be, for the lack of a more appropriate word, _married_ to his First Officer for the rest of his life.

He didn't love him.

No.

That was a definite improbability.

But if they did bond, would Spock hold it over his head? Would the Vulcan get upset if he wanted to marry a woman and have a life, if he could even do so?

He was starting to have second thoughts. He hadn't noticed Bones staring at him concerned.

"You're changing your mind, aren't you?"

He could only nod his head. But he knew that they wouldn't be able to make it to the colony before Spock perished. There really weren't many options. And there was nobody else willing to make such a sacrifice.

He sighed.

"Maybe we should try something else." Bones offered.

"There really isn't anything else we can try." It wasn't really a question. "And we can't put out a ship-wide broadcast as an advertisement. Spock is already beating himself up over this. We don't need to make it public." He stated, swallowing his doubts, because what else could he do?

Bones sighed too. Jim was right. Even if he didn't want to admit it.

"Keep your communicator near by, just in case." Bones stated, really hesitant to leave his Captain alone. "I'll put the two of you on medical leave." He added before standing. Jim refused eye contact. "You don't have to do this."

"I do. Bones, you know I do."

But Bones didn't answer. He just left, though he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was waiting for Jim to change his mind and call him back. But Jim didn't and he left the room.

He was alone again, well, he had his regret and sorrow, guilt and nervousness, but he was alone. Spock was still unconscious. He was mildly grateful for that. But he couldn't have more than minutes left to think about what he had done, what will be done. He was scared. He knew there was a bond, but other than that he didn't know what to expect.

"Why are you here?" The hoarse voice made him jump and he spun around. His heart dropped. "You should leave."

"I know what's happening."

Spock's eyes went uncharacteristically wide. If this situation weren't so grave, that would have been comical.

"I can't." Spock's voice cracked.

He knew he was losing control.

"I know." Jim sat down on the bed at Spock's hip. "But I know what will happen if you don't."

Spock didn't say anything. Jim didn't look at him.

"I know I'm not ideal, but there's no one else that would do this for you." Who would give up his freedom to you, he finished in his head.

"I don't want to take your freedom." Spock answered. Jim dropped his head.

"Just do it before I change my mind."

Spock didn't move. Jim got angry. The anger and fear and restlessness running rampant in him spread to Spock and it shredded away the rest of the Vulcan's control and he was pressed hard into the mattress again, face down and he tried not to think that he was suffocating. He tried not to think about being stripped. Tried not to think about the fire that blistered his skin. Tried to block out every sensation, everything he didn't want. It hurt.

It really hurt.

He felt like he was being ripped open. His mouth dropped open, but the pain strangled the scream in his throat. He knew fighting wouldn't do anything, but he struggled anyway, but felt a hand at the back of his neck, holding him in place, the other hand branding a handprint on his hip as he was invaded, battered. He fisted the sheets. He should have known this would have happened.

But again he tried to block it all out.

Until the hand on his neck found those points on his face and he couldn't stay lost in his other world anymore.

Fire and need and lust and anger burned inside of his mind and he collapsed, unable to control his body anymore. It got dark and his eyes shut.

When he came to, he was flooded with regret and hatred and panic and fear.

He wasn't alone anymore. He could never really be alone anymore, could he?

He couldn't feel any part of his body. He was curled on his side, unbearably cold and exposed and felt something dry and crusted on is skin, pinching and hurting. He could smell copper, or was it iron? He tried not to think that it was probably his own blood that he smelled.

A hand touched his shoulder and he desperately arched away from it. The hand didn't follow. He was flooded with relief, but also with a new wave of guilt. Remorse, coupled with a despondent apology, rushed into him now. He tried to shove the presence out. It retreated.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't talk to me. Please."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"You shouldn't have stayed."

"_Please_."

There was no response after that.

It was quiet. He concentrated on only his breathing. He ignored everything else.

He almost cried. He wanted to, but couldn't. He was bonded now. The weight of that pressed against his chest and he started to hyperventilate. Hands were all over him again and he was flooded with fear. He flailed, trying to separate himself. He still couldn't control his breathing.

"Stop. Please." The deep voice begged.

He ceased his movements, lying flat on his back now. He was still hyperventilating, but it far less severe. Tears escaped from the corners of his eyes, and long, careful fingers brushed them away.

He turned away, looking at the clock. He had lost three days. Lost. Three. Days. He couldn't remember anything. Some part of his subconscious must have faded everything to black. But that was still frightening.

Long arms wrapped around him, warm now, not burning, rocked him gently and he didn't know he was sobbing quietly until the whispers in his ear pleaded with him to stop.

His arms responded to him now, and he placed his hands on Spock's back, holding on with all he had. The reaction was as surprising to him as it was to Spock. But he only held tighter when he noticed.

He wasn't sure if it was love, but it was something.

* * *

AN: Well, yeah. This really got away from me. I know that it doesn't really fit in, AT ALL, but I'll still leave it in, because I was listening to "Boys Boys Boys" and it did sort of inspire me. Hidden subliminal message in the song? What?

Anyways.


	12. Paparazzi

_Paparazzi _

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Paparazzi" by Lady Gaga! After the past two, you can expect some fluffy humor and such. I need to lighten this up!

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: K

* * *

He didn't really expect this. Absolutely not. Regardless of what he had done, this shit was absolutely ridiculous. He couldn't have claimed to have had any time alone in the past twenty-four hours, and that was an unfortunate truth.

No matter where he went, there was somebody who rushed him, someone he didn't know, who seemed to know more about him than his own mother and it made him a little awkward, but he flashed that smile and it all seemed to get better again.

A lot of people came up and talked to him. All different kinds of people. Men, women, teenage girls, prom queens, rebels, fighters, children, and he met with them with the best humor he could, even though his patience was wearing thin and he just wanted some time alone.

They asked him all the same basic things. He was tired of repeating himself. He had briefly considered making a recording, but he knew it was a rude thing to do. But seriously, going from useless drunk to hero was sort of a big leap and even people who had despised him in the past bragged about knowing him. He couldn't help but roll his eyes.

What really got him though, was that he garnered the most attention. Hell, he was nearly killed three times over the course of the entire _Narada_ incident; strangled at least three times, nearly falling off ledges twice. Now that he thought about it, he really should watch what he's doing.

Sure, he had the most dramatic story. The worthless, genius-level repeat offender, drunk extraordinaire rising up and saving a whole planet in some mind-blowing galactic adventure. It sounded great on paper, but he didn't do it alone. Aside from the four hundred plus crewmembers _actually assigned_ to the _Enterprise_, there were plenty of people who had done more than he had. He just sort of pulled them all in the right direction.

Without Uhura's interception of the Klingon message, he wouldn't have put two and two together as soon as he would have, and when he did, he wouldn't have had enough proof to back up the assumption on the bridge in front of Pike and Spock, who both would have just thrown him off the bridge and dismiss him as an attention whore. Without Scotty, he wouldn't have made it onto the _Narada. _Without Sulu, he would have fallen off the drill platform and his adventure would have ended there. Without Chekov, he and Sulu would have fallen to their deaths.

But without Spock, he wouldn't have gotten out of this. Spock had really been there, one step behind him all the way, even if he had been reluctant to trust him. The fact that Spock _had_ trusted him, his plan, his judgment, meant a lot to him.

So while everyone on the planet focused on him, he did the same for Spock.

He wouldn't yet put those feelings into words, but he knew they were there.

When he and his First Officer had been stuck together in the longest meeting of his life, he couldn't help but steal glances at the other man, the one person everyone's idol idolized the most. They were barely friends, but he adored him, in spite of the fact that word made him feel pathetic. Every mental picture he saved made him smile, and when Spock would catch him, his smile would only widen, but he'd look away.

Spock was still stiff around him, but he planned on chasing Spock until he felt the same, until he loved him too, until he could hold him in his hands and claim him as his.

Until then, he was content to just be near him, because Spock was blinding and everything and he was glad that he was the only one who saw.

* * *

AN: And so, after two hilariously long pieces, there's this! Cute and short. I'll be working on the next chapter, which I hope will be a little longer, but no harm no foul!


	13. Just Dance

_Just Dance _

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Just Dance" by Lady Gaga!

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: T  
Warnings: Alcohol abuse

* * *

The music was loud, thrummed in his ears and it was perfect. There was probably a regulation against this, or against how drunk he was, but that was just it; he was too drunk to care.

All his muscles still ached. He didn't show it, but he felt it. Being here, where the imperative was to dance, his muscles and joints screamed against it. He took another shot of something he couldn't remember and let some blonde pull him onto the floor. Every one he past was a blur, moving too fast from his brain to keep up with. It was a rush and when the bass kicked up he fell into the beat quickly and the blonde was right up against him.

She could twist her hips in the most amazing way.

When the song was over, the dull roar in the back of his mind starting to grow in intensity and that meant it was time for another shot and he stumbled back to the bar, nearly falling over himself for a minute, and used the ledge as leverage to keep himself up while the bartender rolled her eyes and sent another one down the counter. As he threw the drink back, he was vaguely aware of the fact that somewhere between his entrance to the club and now, he managed to lose his communicator. He wondered briefly if that would be a problem before the warmth of the alcohol drowned out the thought, the sensation rising up through him and muffling everything inside his head.

He couldn't even remember where he was anymore. But it was alright because he had wanted to get lost; he wanted to forget, if only for a little while. The past eight months had been harder than he anticipated, the last two weeks grueling and dangerous and painful and he had garnered more scars in the past month than he had in years previous.

The song that came on drowned out even the alcohol and he was led out to the floor again, and he willing followed. If this song lasted forever, he wouldn't mind. He just needed to forget everything. He was going to be okay. Even as a migraine clawed in, he was going to be okay.

He found himself at the bar again, leaning back against the counter, watching the dance floor with interest, but he couldn't see straight and that made it all the more interesting. The girl he was talking to seemed to expect more out of him than he was willing to give and he wished he could shut his mouth because he knew what he was absent-mindedly saying to her was only making situations worse and somewhere along their conversation she must have tried to get his shirt off because it was now inside out. She kept prodding, trying to get him to give in, but he was just lucid enough to know that she wasn't what he needed nor wanted, so if he could keep his playboy mouth from saying something completely ridiculous between now and whenever he was thrown out, he might be able to avoid her advances.

He asked her where he was and she just smiled and asked him where he wanted to be and he wanted to be in an overly sweet voice that smelled like cosmopolitans and he turned away from her. The bartender shook her head and headed towards the other end of the bar and he turned back around.

The girl narrowed her eyes and stomped onto the floor and he watched her skirt sway back and forth and tried to cool his thoughts. He felt like he was overheating.

His eyes scanned the dance floor, checking out everyone, seeing so many women he would have stumbled over himself to sleep with, but sitting here, as drunk as he was, he didn't want a single one of them. Even that one girl with most amazing hips he couldn't find an interest in.

The music got psychotic, uncontrolled, crazy and it made his head swim. He tried to come back, but his mind was drifting elsewhere and he was reeling and there was a hand on his arm, strong and controlled and he wondered if perhaps it was a bouncer, ready to throw him out into the cold. He hadn't been rowdy or crude or anything. He was just drunk as Hell. Had they changed the rules since he's been away?

His head rolled boneless on his neck, eyes falling back into his head. He groaned, felt the noise rise up from his stomach, felt it vibrate in his throat. He was so painfully aware of every sensation, even the burning touch on his arm. He was shaken, he was sure of it, but he couldn't ground himself anymore. He couldn't feel the barstool, he couldn't hear the music, he only felt his breathing, that touch, could only hear his heartbeat. It was weird. He'd never felt like this before; then again, he'd never let himself drink this much.

He was starting to forget what had driven him to this point.

That was frightening.

He felt the heat on his shoulder lift him up and soon he was hit with the stalling coldness of something outside of where he had been. His vision was starting to clear a little, and he was aware, peripherally, that he was walking, his arm over someone's shoulders, and he leaned in, but was pushed away. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't protest, sure he didn't want to be left out here stumbling aimlessly where he knew tomorrow when he was lucid, Bones would give him an earful. Why was Bones his mother away from home?

He felt weightless for a second, and then he was being led again, and a door opened and he was brought into his room. The lights were too bright and he groaned, turning to bury his face in a shoulder that wasn't his. The lights dimmed to command and he was pushed away again.

Soon, Bones' gruff voice filled his ears and the all-too-familiar pinch of a needle in his neck snapped him back a little more into the real world. His hand instinctively flew up to the site of injection, lightly rubbing the sore spot, his usual response a slur on his tongue that he swallowed with a bit of nausea and a light-headed feeling.

He heard two voices, but he stopped paying attention, focusing on the rhythmic throbbing of the injection site, trying to quell the need to throw up because his legs felt weak and he wasn't going to make it anywhere near a toilet or a sink, and while he had no qualms with throwing up in front of Bones, because he's seen it all before, it was for the sanctity of his yet unidentified guest that he wanted to keep whatever wanted to get outside inside.

Whatever Bones' injected him with was starting to drive out the alcohol, work it out of his system, the faintest tendrils of it twisting faintly inside of him as the were dissipated. He sighed in relief, the nauseous feeling finally retreating before he was suddenly struck with another wave.

He had gotten drunk off his ass. He had no idea what time it was or for how long he was out. He really hoped his stupid and rash decision hadn't done something he would regret.

When he was met with McCoy's less than approving face he was prepared for the worst.

"Do you have any idea how intoxicated you were?" Bones' asked with that motherly tone of his.

"No, I don't, actually."

"You had _alcohol poisoning_."

His eyes widened and his response was lost. He swallowed hard. His mouth went dry.

"And you weren't responding to our hails. I was really concerned."

"Sorry."

"Sorry does not make up for the fact that you nearly _drowned_ yourself in alcohol, Jim. If I hadn't sent someone to find you, God only knows." The gruff voice snapped with an edge and a worried softness at the same time. "You really shouldn't be allowed to go anywhere by yourself any more. You got a death wish?"

"I'm really sorry. I just needed to forget everything for a while. I didn't know I had gone too far."

"Well, you're one lucky bastard." Came his friend's reply, voice considerably less angry.

"I guess so."

Bones clapped him on the shoulder and left after checking him out once more.

"I'm leaving you with a baby sitter for a while." The voice of his best friend called as the good doctor left, the door sliding shut before he could protest.

Baby sitter?

"Do you require anything, Captain?" The familiar voice of his First Officer rang in the silence, cutting his thought off and answering the question as to whom Bones implied with 'baby sitter.'

"No." He responded, eyes searching the unusually darkened room for the origin of the voice. "Was it you who carried me back here?" He asked suddenly.

"Yes, Captain."

"Sorry. That must have been uncomfortable for you."

"Your apology is not needed. I was concerned for your safety." Spock stated, somewhat uncharacteristically.

"Thanks." He looked down at his hands. "You really don't need to stay. I won't say anything to McCoy if you don't." He said, trying to joke like he normally did, but his voice sounded hoarse and foreign to him.

"Your offer is unnecessary. I intend to stay."

His eyes narrowed slightly at that tone. He was unsure what it meant.

"Suit yourself." He added with a tone that seemed to reflect his confusion, but he refused to look back at his First, opting, instead, to fall back onto his mattress to stare absently at the ceiling.

"I was very concerned when you didn't answer." Spock said suddenly.

"Were you?" He sounded a little snide to himself. He wondered if it transferred.

"I was." Spock said, his voice falling flat again, perhaps in response to him. "Your tone is unwarranted."

He was taken aback by that comment and sat up bolt upright to look straight at his First, trying to gage exactly what was going on. When their eyes locked, something inside of him melted at the intensity. He jumped, honest to God, _jumped_ when Spock stood up abruptly and crossed the room fluidly and gracefully before he could even get a handle on what was going on. The medication was making him groggy.

The last bits of whatever thought process he had left vanished when he caught Spock's gaze again. It was heavy and passionate and so _foreign_ that he didn't know what to do with it.

He cautiously reached out, fingertips grazing that pale cheek, the contact brief, as he drew his hand away quickly. The fire that raced through his fingers jarred him and he held his hand out just far enough that they didn't touch. He extended both hands, tentatively holding the face between his hands as the rest of his body leaned forward, bringing them close together.

He was definitely still in that bar, drunk off his ass. There was no other explanation.

He closed the distance.

Flames rushed through his veins, up along his arms, into his body. Their lips met, and another surge crashed into him.

He was definitely still drunk.

Wasn't he?

Hands glided along his arms, encased his own and pulled them away. Even in a hallucination he wasn't in control. Seriously?

But when he was pushed onto his back, all protest fled. He didn't want to be in control. This was far better. The hands on him were unbearably hot and his entire body felt far too cold and craved the touch desperately, his back arching when the heat dissipated. His muscles started to ache, joints growing stiff, just as they had in the club, a dull reminder of his body's current weakness and he groaned. When those hands were on him, he couldn't remember that pain.

The heat was bleeding every thought out of him. He needed it back. He didn't even have to open his mouth to beg. But everything went dark and he swore in his head.

He really hated hypo-sprays.

Seriously.

When he could regain what he laughably referred to as consciousness some few hours later, he expected to be in an alley or something, but he was in his bed. He tried to remember how he got there again.

He was carried. He remembered that. He remembered Bones jabbing him in the neck again. He remembered Spock was there. But he wasn't sure if everything he was remembering was real or fabricated. His body was stiffer than it had been yesterday, creaked and cracked when he tried to move and his head throbbed with the aftereffects of Bones' medication and mild sedative.

He tried to sit up, but his body had better ideas, and he settled to just roll over onto his back. He cracked his neck to relieve the tension and again tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He groaned loudly into the silence at the effort, but managed it.

He reached his arms over his head, feeling and hearing his back crack and his muscles stretch the burn bringing life into him.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

His eyes widened and he turned his head towards the voice to see his First at his desk on the other side of the room.

"What?" He asked stupidly. Spock didn't repeat himself. "You're… okay."

"Excuse me?"

He laughed at himself and slid off the bed, running his fingers through his hair.

"You stayed all night?"

"Even after you fell asleep on me." Spock added, a mocking tone in his voice as his head tilted slightly to the right.

His jaw nearly dropped.

"That… what?"

Spock only stared at him as his tried to understand what he was passing off as Standard for the moment.

"That really happened?" He asked, dumbfounded. His mind nearly stopped working when he saw the corners of Spock's mouth rise in the smallest of smiles.

He was going to be okay.

* * *

AN: So I'm amused with the ending of this.


	14. Beautiful, Dirty, Rich

_Beautiful, Dirty, Rich _

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Beautiful, Dirty, Rich" by Lady Gaga!

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: T

* * *

He threw his head back, laughter bubbling in his throat. The car was going way too fast and the girls were screaming and landmarks and trees and buildings rushed by. He pushed the limits of the car until he could _feel_ the car, as if he was part of it, and they moved in sync. The louder their voices got, the harder he revved the engine.

This little voice in the back of his mind, whatever rationality he had, tried to talk him down from his high, but he wouldn't stop. Short of killing himself, he wouldn't stop.

The girl in the passenger seat grabbed his arm. Her long nails dug into his skin, her long hair whipped him as the wind gushed in through the open windows he locked. It was exhilarating, and his best friend, tucked in the back behind him, had let go of his reservations miles ago, one flask of bourbon later.

It had been the girls' idea to get out of San Francisco for break, to get as far away from the academy as they could on one tank and when they broke down, find the nearest town. They lived hard, fast and beautiful, and that was why he put up with them for so long. The more scared they got, the more gorgeous they were, and they were petrified. He flashed his smile, and her grip eased, but when he drifted around the corner, another shriek ripped out of her throat and Bones' gripped his headrest for dear life.

He was pushing two-hundred and fifty when they hit the outskirts of Las Vegas and he slowed to a crawl for him, around one-fifty, just slow enough to avoid the flashing lights and fast enough to keep their hearts from maintaining a stable rhythm.

They ditched the car in a parking garage and found themselves in the red light, bathed in the morbid, alluring color. The girls led the way, always knowing exactly where to go and he followed with Bones' right behind him. Bones' was always reluctant to go along with him, but he agreed this time, refusing to have to head back to Georgia and be anywhere near his ex-wife. He would have gone if his daughter was there, but she had been sent to some boarding school.

The girls pushed open the doors to a club, after leading them through an alley. The smell of alcohol and sex and sweat and perfume wafted out of the double doors and seemed to pull him in by the throat. The music inside was loud, base rocking the building and the two girls slipped onto the floor, avoiding the fight about to break out with he and the doctor found themselves at the bar, their earlier buzz starting to sober off. Bones' took another shot of bourbon and he threw back a shot of gin. The familiar burn scraped down his throat and he smiled, resting the glass down, awaiting another and tossed that one back as well.

The girls sauntered over, their hair still perfect, even after the way they ran their fingers through it while they danced and each took a shot of Patrón then another one for good measure before grabbing him and McCoy and pulling them out onto the floor.

The darker haired one, the one from the passenger seat, wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned close, pressing as tightly as she could, her breath ghosting over his neck. She turned around, throwing her arms over her head and back around his neck and slithered down and back up, winding her hips.

He glanced over her shoulder, where he had a clear view of the door and saw someone walk in her was sure he knew, but he was too shit-wrecked to think of the name.

"Is that Uhura?" The blonde, twin sister to the other, with obviously bleached hair, shouted over the music, leaning close to him, as if to make sure he heard her.

"I think so." Her sister slurred, glancing over her shoulder at him, smiling deviously. He rolled his eyes and stepped away from her. She took the dismissal in stride, joining her sister and turning heads.

He pushed through the crowds toward the bar, where he saw Uhura.

"Oh, it's you." She scoffed when she turned to him. She grabbed her glass, and leaned back against the counter. "I should have figured you'd be here. Haven't gotten in a fight yet, have you? Pike would be proud." She added, dismissively, tossing her hair over her shoulder and flashed him a smile that was as deadly as it was attractive.

"You here alone?"

"Are you propositioning me?" She asked, laughing.

"No." He shot back, taking the hit to his ego, again. "Just wondering."

"There's a group of us. I'm just the first one here." She glanced at the door before looking back at him. He had already tossed back another shot of gin. "Are you fishing for something? Gaila isn't going to be here." She offered acidly.

"Just wondering if that high-strung boyfriend of yours is going to be here." He served back, smiling when her eyes went wide before narrowing.

"We aren't dating, you backwards farm boy. Not anymore." She clarified. "And for your information, he is here. Well, he's in Nevada. A group of the professors are here for a conference." Her eyes locked with his. "_You _looking for him?"

"Me? No." He spat quickly, trying not to look suspicious. He figured she saw right through him. She laughed but said nothing. Someone she knew must have arrived because she smiled at him and turned away, heading toward the entrance.

"What was _that_ about?" The dark haired girl asked, her silken voice even more slurred than it was before. It smelled of triple sec, faint orange and heavy alcohol. She always smelled like oranges.

"None of yours." He stated coldly, and she shivered mockingly in response.

"Have another. You're getting to be no fun." She mewled, handing another glass to him. He took it quickly and downed it, the burn more intense than it had been before. Whiskey. One-eighty proof. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze.

He laughed to himself. He hadn't changed much since that bar fight that landed him a proposition to join Starfleet. He still drank more than he could handle, he still used sex like a drug. He hadn't changed much.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He whispered to the ceiling, smiling fading on his lips. He couldn't help that he was addicted. It was easier to drown out sensations, memories, pain, than to face them. And bad habits die hard.

"Who are you talking to?" The lighter-haired one asked. He ignored her and pushed past the sisters to McCoy. They jeered at him, melting into the crowd, finding it all to easy to replace him with someone more interesting in falling victim to them.

"Something on your mind?" McCoy said, his Southern drawl starting to come out thicker and thicker.

"Let's get out of here."

"Thought you'd never ask, honey." He laughed, following him out, the night air sobering him up a little. At least he could breathe again. "What's got you in such a rush?" McCoy asked, not missing a beat.

"You know where that conference is?"

"The what?"

"The conference."

"That doesn't help me at all." McCoy stated flatly, his confused tone making Jim laugh.

"Where did we leave the car?"

"Assuming it's still there? In that direction." He pointed absently. "Or that one." He added, his other hand pointing in the opposite direction, his brows knitted together in confusion.

With one Hell of a miracle, they found the cars, keys still inside and started to head out of Las Vegas, somewhere toward Reno, McCoy's best guess as to where whatever conference he was talking about might be. He was pushing two-hundred again, and even drunk, Bones' was out of his mind scared. If he thought we was afraid of space, it had just gotten replaced with Jim's driving.

He didn't want to be driving for hours, like he would have been if they had followed the customary, and safe, as McCoy pointed out, speed limits. McCoy had already dosed him with some medication that was working the alcohol out of him, and he was sober enough to drive, just not enough to consider his own safety. Then again, he didn't have to be sober to be reckless, and Bones knew this, and he sighed, slumping in the passenger seat, praying that they make it to Reno in one piece. He only laughed and pushed forward, even as the sun was long set behind the horizon and the clock inched toward nine-thirty. There was only a half an hour to go on his crazed, half-informed mission.

He couldn't even think of why he was so desperate to get to Reno. When that thought crossed his mind, he slammed onto the brakes, hard, the car skidding forward before coming to a complete stop in the middle of some back road that would have had McCoy nervous if he wasn't reeling from nearly getting whiplash.

"What the Hell are you doing?" His best friend screamed, twisting in his seat to stare at him with wide eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, only deepening that hysterical look of fear in his eyes. "You out of your _mind_?" The voice was accompanied by one vice-like grip on his forearm and another to the dash in front of the passenger seat.

"I might be. Bones, what the Hell are we doing?"

"What? I thought _you _knew! I was just dragged along. What the -? Goddammit, Jim."

He just laughed at his friend and pulled the car over to the shoulder.

"So now what? The locator says we're just outside of Reno." McCoy stated, gesturing to the dashboard computer. "I _really_ don't want to suffer you driving all the way back to Las Vegas."

"So, hotel in Reno?"

"You think we'll find one?"

"I have no idea. But it's either that, or head to the next city."

"Reno it is." McCoy stated, almost too excited to get out of this deathtrap. He typed in a search for hotels and found one with two rooms and booked them from the car and they continued into the city, following the onscreen directions and the speed limit. It was just past ten thirty when they found the hotel, parked and checked-in and McCoy abandoned him at his designated room before heading to his own.

He opened the door and threw his stuff inside, not paying attention to where it landed, but winced when something crashed, and he really hoped he wouldn't have to pay for that. He didn't check to see what it was, however, heading back into the lobby to see what, or who, was around. He was still working off the vaguest of hangovers and he liked to walk off the last tendrils of it.

The lobby was empty, with the exception of the concierge, who was too busy looking at something on the computer to even notice he was there. He started looking around at the announcements and flyers scrolling across the walls. One of them caught his eye and he reached out to the wall, his fingertips stopping the announcement from moving further down the wall. Placing two fingers in opposite corners, he tugged, and the text grew larger.

Under the large emblem of Starfleet was an announcement for a conference and he started reading through the list, scrolling through the attachments of the schedule, the lecturers and some notable attendees. He was starting to lose interest when a name caught his eye, and he stretched the document larger, as if that mattered at all. He heard footsteps come up behind him and flicked the announcement away, swiping his fingers across the wall. He felt like a teenager with a crush as a dull yet heated blush rose on his cheeks as he tried to act innocent. Whoever was standing behind him must be laughing.

"Cadet?"

The voice was cold, level. They had not been laughing. That made his embarrassment worse. He turned and his heart dropped. He tried to smile and prayed it worked.

"Yeah?"

"I didn't expect to see you here." The professor stood there, dressed in the black, fitted off-duty uniform that clung in all the beautiful places, what a thought, hands behind his back, his customary stance.

"Well, yeah. I was in Vegas," he started, running his hand through his hair nervously. "I just sort of ended up here. It was getting late." He wondered if that even made any sense.

"I see."

He felt awkward. Really. Awkward. He shifted his weight continuously. In the end, he opted to just turn and leave, thinking in the back of his mind that it was sort of rude to just run off without excusing himself. He made his way back to his room and fumbled through his pocket for the key to the door but couldn't find it.

"God damn." He swore, falling back against the door and sliding down to the floor. With his luck he probably left the damn thing in the room. He wouldn't be surprised. He forgot what Bones' room number was. He sighed and closed his eyes, rapping his head against the door distractedly.

He heard the lock click open and he startled awake, unsure of when he had started to drift off, looking up in a daze.

"I discovered this on the lobby floor. I believe you dropped it when you departed."

His cheeks flushed again, and he chuckled to himself as he used the door to push himself up, too close, and his eyes went wide and he stumbled back.

"Sorry." He said quickly, trying to give his professor more space. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at himself, really starting to feel like a hormonal teenager, all flustered and beside himself.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"What? No. I'm fine."

He felt those eyes give him a once over, as if he didn't believe the words, then offered him the key, which he grabbed, accidentally brushing his professor's fingers in the process.

The electric shock that powered through him was startling. He couldn't help but stare, hand still slightly outstretched, not knowing what to do with it, nor with the strange numb, tingling feeling left behind from the shock. His professor seemed just as taken aback, but in a mush more subtle way; his eyes were fixed on his hand, as if he didn't recognize it. When their eyes finally met, neither one of them said anything.

Behind him, the door, sensing movement again, slid open and he nearly fell backwards, saved by his latching onto that strong lean wrist out of reflex. It managed to prevent him from falling on his ass, and in return got him pushed into the room.

When he managed to regain his balance, he was standing in the middle of the room, a good two feet from Spock, because now, in his _hotel room_, the man was _not_ his professor.

The man was nothing more than intense, powerful, intimidating and unbearably hot. He could feel the heat from where he stood. It stalled him. It was beautiful. Those dark eyes connected with his, the near black color warming to a lurid brown, tempting and dirty with promises. When his voice cracked through silence, it was deep, alluring, a rich tone. Amazing.

"James." No one called him that. Hearing his name in that tone nearly made his knees weak, but he was _not _going to collapse. No.

At least not yet.

He took a step forward, needing to get closer, even if he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, this was _hot_ and he couldn't resist. There was something almost intoxicating about the improbability of this that made it hard to stop, even if he had wanted to do so. Which he didn't.

He heard his name in that same burning tone and he couldn't help himself, he fluidly moved forward, capturing that face between his palms, crushing their lips together. Nothing else really mattered at the moment.

It was all beautiful, dirty, rich.


	15. Speechless

_Speechless _

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Speechless" by Lady Gaga.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: T

* * *

I can't believe what you said to me the last night when we were alone. You gave up, you gave up on me. You turned on your heel and left me there, my jaw hanging, heart erratic, skin so cold, and my mind numb.

I don't understand what I said wrong. Hell, I didn't say anything to you.

You just walked in, eyes glassy, dark and brooding. I couldn't make anything out, and I felt like I was flailing, although I couldn't move under the intensity of your gaze.

I can't believe how you looked at me. Even when I snuck onto the _Enterprise_, before the start of the mission, before I graduated the academy, dammit, when I 'cheated' on your damn test, you didn't look at me like that.

It was reproachful, as if I had tried to kill you. You refused to come near me, but that look in your eyes _burned_ into me, and even now, I can see it, can _feel _it, and it still hurts me as it did then.

I know that I'm not perfect. You reminded me plenty of times of my faults. It hurt to hear them out loud, but even as I winced at the words coming out of your mouth, you didn't stop, your tone only growing harsher, as if every one of my faults were direct insults to you, as if everything I was and am was painful for you to be near.

I tried to say something but you cut me off, your voice almost a growl, and my mouth shut, my entire being unwilling to have to be addressed in that tone again. Goddammit, you hurt me.

I never thought I'd see the day, but I've seen it, and I wish I hadn't.

And everything that you said, every logic-stained lie that fell from your lips tried to rip the hole in my chest only a little bit wider until the gash was too big to keep everything inside me from falling out, and everything I tried to hide was exposed, every weakness, and dependence, and everything I trusted you with, you used against me, and that hurt more than anything else before or after.

When you ignored me today, it didn't hurt as much as last night, but you've left me speechless.

I can't say anything, even if I wanted to. I wouldn't know what to say. Anything I could have said, you ripped from me. I have nothing left, you know. It's still with you. Did you intend that? When you left, you took everything, you know, and I'll never love again.

You have everything. And it hurts that you'll only ever use it against me, but I love you, for whatever that's worth. You never let me say it. You suppressed it in me until I was afraid to say it, and now, I don't have the words to express it anyway.

But I'll never talk to you again. Oh, you've left me speechless.

If things hadn't gone so wrong, would you even be angry with me? If I hadn't gotten in trouble down there, would you have even approached me that way, popping the seams on everything I held dear to me?

But it comes down to something else, doesn't it? You never trusted me. Right up until you wrecked me, you couldn't trust me. You never said it, but I felt it. You were so jealous, so possessive. You warned me. I took it to heart, even though you couldn't see it, I honored you, I cherished you, I was faithful down to the last second, even now and forever. But you couldn't believe me, could you?

Did you ever care for me as deeply as I did for you?

I fell hard for you, and nothing you could do was wrong. But everything I did was wrong. You always interrogated me. You couldn't believe me. I couldn't lie to you if I wanted to. But you lied to me. You lied to me so much; I didn't know when you were telling the truth. I never knew what to expect, but I always knew that you would make it so complicated; you would tear it to pieces and inspect it. I couldn't do anything to win your trust, and it was the step to what I really wanted.

I should have tried to look past that, but I couldn't. I loved you, and I couldn't see past the fact that you wouldn't love me. When you looked at me, did you see someone else? Did you see someone who abandoned you? Or was it someone you let go? Something you regret? Did you ever see me? Was that why you hated my every fault? Because I wasn't what you wanted?

Couldn't you have told me what you wanted? Why didn't you talk to me? You were always so speechless. I tried so hard to impress you, to be everything, and I failed miserably, and you only looked at me with sad eyes and I couldn't help but crawl away from you defeated, every time, because I couldn't be perfect.

I was chaotic and unpredictable and illogical, brash, arrogant and reckless, but under that, I was weak. I was still wounded from childhood, and you couldn't put me together, but then again, you never really tried to. You fit in all the right places, but you couldn't stand to be there, and when you broke away from me, you broke more than you off-handedly repaired, leaving me worse for wear.

I have nowhere to go now.

Everything is so cold now. After having that heat, nothing else can compare and you've felt me with no absolution, no relief and I don't know where to turn, because no one can live up to what you've left behind in me. I'm stranded with no way out.

After all the fights and arguments that we've had, all the pain we caused to each other, could you give it all up and forgive me? Could you see past it all to the real me that you never dug deep enough to see, to trust me like I wished you would? After everything left unsaid, would you give it all up? Could you give it all up if I promised to you that I'll never talk again? That I'll never love again?

If I let it all go, could you just forgive me? Forgive me for everything I did and didn't do? For everything I messed up and wrecked? Could you forgive me of the faults you laid on me?

And could I even forgive you?

I feel hollow and broken and when I look at you, I can't help but be angry, even though I'm speechless. You've left me speechless. I want to scream, I want to accuse you, but I can't. And I won't. And you avoid me anyways.

Sometimes I'm grateful for it. But right now, I'm not.

It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

I keep thinking those words, I keep trying to work up the ability to say them to you, but I can't. And would you even believe me now? It always seemed that you were looking for me to screw up.

Why couldn't you trust me?

It wasn't my fault.

And you're the only one that doesn't believe me. McCoy found the drug in my system I told you they gave to me without my knowledge. Uhura translated the purpose of it I told you they said it meant to me. Everyone else knew.

Why did you think it was me?

It wasn't my fault.

I'm angry again, and I couldn't even care that I'm in the hallways, because I can only think about you when the world isn't trying to come crashing down around me. Everyone followed me, but you would choose death to my company, and now you're so speechless.

When I saw you in the hall, I walked right past you; I almost didn't notice it was you until you grabbed me. I didn't know what to do, and I froze in place, turning only when you made me. I was angry, but it couldn't stand up to the shaking and the desperation and I wanted to get away, because I didn't want to hear what you had to say because I didn't think I could take it.

You let go of me and you started to say something, but I turned and continued along, trying to get away from you, but you caught me again. Now you were angry, and I couldn't find it in my will to escape, even when you let me go again.

What would you say to me now? There couldn't be anything left you could use that I haven't heard yet. And I didn't want to hear it. I couldn't hear it. Why would you do this to me now? I haven't bothered you since that night you walked out on me. I haven't tried to fight with you. I haven't tried anything, because I figured that would have been what you wanted.

When you asked me why I haven't said anything, I responded the best way I could, telling you that you wouldn't have listened to me. You looked upset and I wondered what I said this time, but when you didn't walk away, I didn't know what to say to you.

You apologized to me then. You left me speechless, and I didn't say anything in return. I still didn't know if I could forgive you. You looked at me, awaiting an answer, but you've left me so speechless.

If you could cry, would you have then? Neither of us said anything, and I didn't know what there was to say.

I ultimately accused you in retaliation, finally able to say something. You only grew more upset, and I lashed out at you, letting it spill out of me. If you were going to take everything, I wanted you to have this too, to remind you of what you did to me.

Why didn't you trust me?

It wasn't my fault.

I threw those words at you finally, and you tried to touch me and I pushed you away, telling you that I didn't think I could forgive you for not having faith in me.

I'll never love again.

When I said those things to you, I thought I might never talk again.

I left you speechless.

You only looked at me with those sad eyes. I didn't concede, I wasn't ready to. Right in the middle of the hall, you grabbed my hand, closing your eyes. You didn't try to hold on when I started to pull away. But I didn't take back my hand.

I finally told you that I loved you.

You leaned in closer to me and you whispered it back.


	16. Lovegame

_Lovegame _

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Lovegame" by Lady Gaga.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: M

* * *

The rhythmic thrumming of his fingers on the arm of his chair was probably driving everyone else insane, but he wasn't really paying attention to them at the moment. There was a distant thought sitting on the outer edges of his consciousness, pushed slightly aside for duty, but it was still there.

The entire day had been an exercise in boredom, as nothing of particular interest occurred in any shift. One or two times, he called Scotty over the intercom and his chief engineer yawned. Bones wasn't answering, probably due to the fact he had probably called him twelve times in twenty minutes. Uhura sat at her station, legs crossed, balancing her chin on her hand, elbow resting on her knee. Chekov took to babbling, effectively keeping Sulu from passing out on his console. The only person seemingly unaffected by the lethargic energy of the ship was Spock. Of course, he couldn't help but think.

He got out of his chair suddenly, and walked over to the science station, even a lecture from his First Officer more entertaining than staring at the empty vid screen.

"Yes, Captain?" The deep voice inquired, not even having to turn around to know he was approaching.

"What? I can't just walk over here?" He asked defensively.

"No." Came the curt reply. "There is always an ulterior motive, Captain."

He heard his communications officer stifle a chuckle and he looked over to her to see her covering her smile with her hand, eyes glittering with laughter.

"Fine. I'm bored as Hell." He admitted, leaning over Spock's shoulder, supporting himself with a hand on the back of Spock's chair. "What are you working on?"

Spock stiffened. Spock may not have thought he noticed, but he did, and it was hard to stifle the smile. This was infinitely better than sitting in his chair staring at the vid screen.

"Nothing in particular." Spock finally stated, the tiniest ounce of strain in his voice.

"I see." Jim answered, leaning ever closer, pretending to be completely innocent, though his motives were far from it.

His First Officer's shoulders became all the more rigid. This time he couldn't hide the smile.

"Did I say something that amused you, Captain?"

He just kept looking ahead at the screen, refusing to look at his First, smile still on his face. It was hard not to look over when he felt those beautiful eyes locked on his face, as if trying to decipher him. Hard, but not impossible.

"That should be a square." He said suddenly, looking over at Spock, who only returned his glance with a most subtle look of confusion.

"Excuse me?"

"That should be squared. That's why it's not working out."

Spock only stared at him, entirely incredulous, before turning his eyes to the screen. Spock keyed in the change and the problem worked itself out in seconds. If he weren't Vulcan, Jim would have bet money on the fact that his jaw would have dropped.

A smug smile spread on his lips and he turned and sat back down, thrumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. He glanced over his shoulder only once after that, watching Spock's elegant fingers fly over the keys in front of him. He was enthralled by the spectacle, but turned around quickly, not wanting to get caught.

When the shift finally came to a close a short twenty minutes later, he made his way to his quarters, hoping to just read through a report or two before collapsing onto his bed and sleeping until his alarm went off.

In the back of his mind, however, he couldn't help but think about the equation and the look on Spock's face when he found his mistake. It made his heart race, just like when he managed to beat the Vulcan at chess. It was a game for him, all innocent and at the same time not. It was fun for him. The reactions he garnered filled him and he stored them away, loving the minute way they warmed him on the inside, though he would never admit to that.

The door to his room slid open and he walked inside, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it away in its proper place before falling into his chair, grabbing the report and reading through it, completely uninterested, but unable to just ignore it. He filed his own report and sent it along its way before picking up the second one off the desk. He yawned and got through half of it before the chime rang, indicating that someone was outside.

He dropped the P.A.D.D. onto his desk and walked over the door, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness that had built up in them. When the door opened, a smile crept onto his face and he turned back into the room, knowing he would be followed. Sitting again at his desk, picking up the report, he acted as if he were still alone, his smile still on his lips.

Another game.

After approximately two and a half minutes of silence, it was finally broken. His guest was getting less patient, and it was fantastic.

"James."

No one else ever called him that, and no one else ever could. Not anymore. There was something about the way _he_ said it, filled the word with things no one else would ever be able to express. He only ever called him by that name when they were alone. It was the only place he _could_ say it, at least for now. And for now, that was perfect.

Still, he remained [half] focused on the report, managing to get a little further into it before he was, again, interrupted.

"James." The word was repeated, filled with impatience and frustration, and somewhere under the vexation, endearment and love, dare he say. No one else got to see this, to hear this. For now and always this was all his; he could never give this up. For as long as he had this, it was all he'd ever need.

"Yes?" He asked, feigning indifference.

"How did you know?" Spock asked, a vague question, yet he knew what he was talking about. He laughed to himself; he had just gained the upper hand in their little game.

"Because." He answered back just as vaguely, knowing just how much it irritated Spock.

"That it an insufficient answer." His First returned, walking up to stand at his right shoulder.

"I know."

"Please explain."

"I'd rather not." He still hadn't lifted his gaze from his report, even if he had long since abandoned trying to actually read it, and from the presence edging in ever so lightly, he knew it was driving Spock insane. Spock had this beautiful obsession with his eyes, and he knew it too.

If he could get him to break in the next three minutes, he will have successfully beaten the current record. He maintained his attention on the report.

Spock left his side, and for the briefest of seconds he thought perhaps he had just lost his advantage, but that was before the P.A.D.D. was ripped out his hand from over his left shoulder and tossed onto the desk.

"My, that was impolite." He stated, slight, however facetious, reprimand his voice. He knew all it would take to win now was one thing. He turned in his chair, locking their eyes.

Check and mate, dear sir.

He felt Spock's heated hands on his bared shoulders, lifting him up, and he gave in, smiling, because he's already won. He stepped closer to the Vulcan as those heated hands slid up to gently encase his neck. Aside from that one step, he did nothing, keeping his hands pressed to his thighs, trying to resist touching, another game.

He was met with a confused look.

"Let's play a game." He responded with a devious smile, walking away from his First, stretching his muscles.

"That seems most inappropriate." Spock answered, vexation clear in his voice.

"Afraid you'll lose, Mr. Spock?" He inquired, not turning around.

"No." Came the harsh reply, though accompanied by a tight grip on his wrist.

"Then, rule one: No touching."

Spock remained silent, but retracted his hand, albeit unwillingly.

"First to give in loses."

"Are those the only rules, then, _Captain_?" Spock asked, mocking him with formality. He felt slightly closed off, but that would probably work to his advantage in the long run. If he couldn't know what Spock was thinking, he might be able to win this.

"Are you in the game?"

"Indeed."

He tried to hide his smile.

"Is departing the room against the rules?"

"Yeah." He answered, turning to face Spock, locking their eyes again. He saw Spock pull his hands behind his back.

After then he returned to his work, switching the computer on and ignoring Spock's existence for the most part, with the exception of the thoughts he knew he couldn't resist thinking, feeling them travel through him and along that shining link, somewhat dampened by the partial block.

"You're cheating."

"You always accuse me of cheating. I am doing nothing." He offered, shoving as much innocence in the words as he could, not lifting his eyes from the computer screen. Spock didn't say anything in response. Suddenly, the barrier between them dropped and he was flooded. His skin felt like it was burning up, every inch flushing a light red. His breathing became shallow and his heart race. He couldn't hold up under the images, feelings, thoughts, promises rushing into him.

He was shaking. He couldn't even hide it. He could feel that deep sense of satisfaction filling him along with the bombardment, but he couldn't think about anything else. He felt as if he were on fire but at the same time he was so cold. His skin was frigid but his mind was in flames and he _needed_ to make it go away.

He ceded, letting himself lose, holding onto those strong arms in desperation he wasn't entirely sure belonged solely to himself, but at the moment, that didn't really matter. He leaned in to press his lips to his Vulcan's, but was stopped. He couldn't even voice his protest as Spock interrupted.

"Do you admit you've lost?"

He didn't really want to admit it. He bit his tongue.

"Do you?" Spock repeated, staring straight at him. He's lost his edge. He just nodded in acquiescence. "And what do I get for winning?"

"Me." He offered whole-heartedly and with hope.

"Worthy prize." The deep, dulcet voice commented before leaning in and capturing his lips. His fingers held a little more tightly and his eyes slid shut as he leaned into the kiss. "Is it out of line to ascertain that since I have won your game, for the duration, I have some control over the outcome?"

He only smiled, turning his face to press his lips to Spock's neck, feeling the even pulse through the kiss.

"Your eyes."

"What?" His voice was slightly muffled by Spock's skin, which he was much more enthralled with.

"I want to see your eyes."

He willingly complied and was rewarded quite well for his efforts. He was thrown down onto the bed, pressed tightly under his Vulcan's weight. He arched up, only to have his bare, heated skin met with fabric. He maintained eye contact, through trying to divest Spock of his shirt was much harder than he anticipated. Spock seemed amused by his frustration and decided to assist him.

When Spock pressed back against him, the heat of his skin was almost overwhelming. It had been far too long. Duty always came first, but right now, there was nothing else he would rather do.

"Your predilection for chaotic thought is quite distracting." Spock said suddenly, his voice low and in his ear. In spite of what was said, the tone sent a shiver down his spine. He leaned up, running his tongue along the shell of Spock's pointed ear, a site of undeniable interest on his part. He reveled in the slight shiver he earned. But it was slight.

"Open up to me." He pleaded, breathlessly, though he would never admit he was pleading, or begging. Spock merely pressed his lips to his temple before replacing them with his fingers, opening their connection the widest, heightening every sensation, every touch and sound. He reached up and held his hands on the small of Spock's back, running them up Spock's sides, slowly, feeling every inch of skin as if he would never feel it again.

"Do not think that way." Spock chided, though with those lips slowly driving him mad he couldn't really focus.

"_Sorry."_ He answered with a smirk, communicating through their bond, not trusting his voice. He was still shocked at the ease with which he adapted to it; not only the communication, but also the idea of someone inside of his head, the idea of monogamy and finally feeling safe in staying in one place with one person for as long as life would grant him that simple pleasure.

"_You are certainly rather the mood-killer." _Spock commented with an amused tone, though there was something a little heavier to it.

"_I'm sorry," _he apologized again, far more sincere this time. _"It's just my nature. I- I love being here with you. Please don't misinterpret me."_

"_You know that I will not. It's just disheartening when you think about dying." _Spock's tone was undeniably saddened. Jim's heart dropped in guilt.

"_Hold me and love me."_ He begged, arching up to keep as much contact as possible, wanting to wipe out everything. It only took seconds for them to forget, or at least move past those thoughts.

He managed to flip them, straddling Spock's hips, bending forward to connect their lips again. His Vulcan's hands came up to grip his hips with an almost bruising force, but he didn't really notice. He pushed himself up, lightly pressing his hands against Spock's, silently ordering them to stay put, earning the arch of one beautiful eyebrow, but he didn't offer a response in return.

He brought two fingers to his mouth rolling his tongue over the digits, briefly wondering how mad that would drive Spock. He pulled the fingers out of his mouth, bringing them to his opening. He pushed one finger in, groaning at the slight pain that spread through him. It had been too long. He felt Spock's hand twitch, ever so slightly at the noise that escaped his throat. He just placed his other hand over Spock's, continuing.

Arching his back, he inserted another finger, just barely missing his prostate and he whimpered, arching further, thrusting his fingers in deeper, but not yet deep enough and another desperate sound escaped him again. The grip around his hips tightened exponentially and thrust his fingers again, brushing that spot so faintly that he couldn't help but moan.

He smirked when a fiery hand wrapped around his wrist. He couldn't help but voice his objection at being disrupted but something far better than his own fingers was tempting him. Without anything to ease the friction, it would have to be hard and quick if he wanted to try to avoid as much pain as possible. That fleeting thought, he knew, would most likely cause Spock to hesitate once he felt it on their bond, so he thrust his hips down hard, feeling himself stretched and filled deep. He gasped and threw his head back.

He rolled his hips experimentally, trying to see how he could do this without hurting himself. He moved agonizingly slow, tentative, and shifted his hips that as he descended, his prostate was brushed perfectly and he couldn't even breathe. He repeated the movement, getting the same result and shook, lungs straining and trying to find air.

Suddenly, he was flat on his back, their contact not broken. He wrapped his legs around that lean waist, lifting his hips. He had known Spock would become frustrated with his slow movements. It brought slight amusement to his features before he was slammed into, hard, but not painful, and he arched his back, mouth dropping open, but the feeling was so overpowering that it trapped the moan in his throat. He pressed his heels into Spock's lower back, silently begging for more.

As Spock thrust faster, deeper, he couldn't help but dig his nails into the perfect skin of Spock's back, voice growing hoarse from the noises he couldn't contain. Spock locked their lips together, and Jim reached down, twining their fingers together in another form of a kiss he loved just as much.

While Spock remained almost outwardly completely controlled, inside his mind, on their connection, he could feel and hear everything. It was so beautiful, but made him remember how insecure he had felt long before their bonding. He quelled the thought quickly, running his free hand through his Vulcan's hair, perfect, as always, while his was probably completely ridiculous and he was sweating, and couldn't help but think he was unattractive, given the dark circles under his eyes on top of everything.

"_You are gorgeous." _The beautiful voice in his mind soothed and he couldn't resist the feeling that bubbled up inside of him, even though it did make him feel like a teenage girl.

But Spock struck his prostate again and he couldn't think anymore. His muscles ached from the strain. His entire body was tense, he was so close and feeling that Spock was the same made everything so much more powerful and intense and he was shaking and begging and moaning, writhing underneath his Vulcan, raising his hips, trying to get him deeper.

His mind faded into white and every muscle in his body thrummed as he came, his moan swallowed by Spock's mouth, his grip tightening. His body, however, was still tense, and every muscle tightened a fraction and Spock's breathless gasp washed over his ear as he was filled, the heat of his release burning and it eased out all the tension in his body.

He was shaking and gasping and panting and held on dearly, not wanting them to separate. Their mental connection fell to their more casual level, and he couldn't help but feel slightly distanced. He knew the thought was illogical, but he couldn't help it. He held Spock tightly, afraid to be let go.

"_You have such saddening thoughts, t'hy'la. Do you have no faith in my feelings for you?"_

"_No, please. It's just- It's just that I need more than normal people would. I need-" _He wasn't sure what he was trying to say, he faltered.

"_I understand. You must realize, however, that maintaining such a heightened level can prove adverse."_

"_I know. Just – when we're alone, can you just keep yourself a little more open to me?"_

"_I am always open to you. You just don't know how to reach me."_

"_Then instruct me. Please."_

Spock pressed his lips to Jim's much cooler forehead, holding him warmly.

"_Of course." _

Jim could hear the smile in his voice and he pressed closer, content in this for now.

Another game was in the works, something with another amazing prospect.

With Spock's already steady heart beating against him, he could feel his own body falling into a complimentary rhythm and his eyes slid shut.


	17. Teeth

_Teeth_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Teeth" by Lady Gaga.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: M

* * *

"Don't be scared." He whispered seductively, some form of command weaving into the tone, even given the fact that he wasn't really in control, at least, not completely.

He let his hands get pinned down by the wrists, the force calculated, so devoid of any real passion and that was what was driving him completely crazy. He tried his hardest to restrict his movements, not wanting to push this too far too fast, knowing that he could ruin this moment with his impatience, yet still, he knew he couldn't hold back for too long.

It needed to be feral, heated, ardent; everything this wasn't. He wanted something akin to that fire that glowed in Spock's dark eyes that day on the Bridge when the Vulcan had nearly choked him to death. It needed to be_ that _intense. It needed to be hot and beautiful and blinding.

He wasn't sure what he could expect. But he didn't need this caution. He wasn't breakable, Hell, Bones' could attest to that, seeing him every time he came back from a fight or planet-side missions with the most interesting and extensive injuries and he was never fazed. He wasn't a cautious person. He was always 'jump first, think about it after'.

He didn't like caution. It reminded him of mortality. And right now, caution was seriously being a mood-killer. Right now, his entire body ached, and only sex was on his mind.

Spock leaned down carefully, pressing their lips together. He was about to fall apart when Spock pulled his lower lip into that burning mouth, biting down, those perfect teeth almost breaking skin. He groaned and arched, unable to fight back or quell how good that felt.

He needed aggression and possessiveness, because if he couldn't be grounded here, he needed to go elsewhere. He needed someone to save him, to make him alright. He needed to be owned, broken in, he needed someone who wanted all of him and wanted to make him know that he didn't need to search or shake apart because they gave him a place to be.

It was sappy and disturbing, but he _needed_ it. He started to fall back into those thoughts until those sharp, unusually sharp, teeth bit down on his shoulder, harder, as if to bring him back. He writhed and moaned, his hands struggling under the grip of Spock's hand, the grip having tightened. He wanted bruises. As that thought crossed through him, the grip tightened even more. When he gasped, however, the grip released slightly, and that beautiful mouth left his shoulder. He squirmed, even if he didn't want to admit it, trying to get that mouth back.

"Spock." His voice was breathy and barely audible, but he knew Spock could hear him. His hands, now free, found their way along Spock's arms, his fingers curling desperately around that pale neck. "Spock, please." He whispered.

Those thin, heated lips met his, a perfect pressure, and he felt like he could shake apart. The way those lips moved against his, he couldn't even feel the broken skin, but when the kiss was broken, the cold air caressed the wound and he drew in a breath, able to feel it, and it hurt.

He arched, pressing his lips to Spock's cheek, to his temple, up along his ear. He resisted the urge to worry the tip between his teeth; he wanted to be gentle, even if he expected something fiercer in return. He wanted to love Spock gently, because he was unsure how to handle him.

That fiery tongue found the wound on his shoulder, the slow movement pulling the pain out of the little indents and he exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding.

His hands found Spock's, their fingers winding around each other, the soft friction of their fingers sliding together a beautiful sensation. He then lightly and tentatively raked his nails down Spock's fingers, kneaded the palms of those lithe hands with his thumbs, bringing those sensitive digits to his lips, kissing each tip, letting them run over his bruised lower lip. His entire body thrummed when, after pulling an index finger into his mouth and running his tongue over the pad, he was met with a crackling electricity.

Aside from his panting, his heartbeat and the sounds his tongue made around that finger, the room was silent. It was slightly unnerving, not knowing if what he was doing was good. His free hand slid down Spock's side, and he nearly jumped when his hands grazed over where Spock's heart was located. In spite of the strange calmness on the Vulcan's face, the heart encaged in his ribs was beating fiercely, much faster than normal. He was relieved, knowing that he was getting his Vulcan all worked up, even if, still, he wouldn't show it.

The heart under his palm lurched when he released Spock's hand from his mouth and his hand. He pulled his other hand away, resting them over his head, his eyes resting on the slightly, barely, flushed skin of the Vulcan straddling him. His eyes traced those lean powerful thighs bracketing his hips, smooth and pale. When his baby blues finally found Spock's black eyes, his was sure his heart stopped and struggled in his chest as if it suddenly forgot its own rhythm. Those eyes were dark, almost black, but not in that deadly way they had, no. They were nearly black in something that was only describable as some passion, intense and deep. It made his heart ache and he couldn't look away.

Spock's mouth descended on him again, those sharp teeth biting his collarbone, almost hard enough to draw blood. That hot tongue traced the grooves left by the bite, soothing the flare of pain and desire that burned there.

Spock's hands moved along the sides of his body, drawing fire out from his core. He knew he might be acting a bit too forward, but he wrapped his legs around Spock's waist, his fingertips dragging up along that lean back as he arched up.

If he was addicted to anything in this universe, it was to this Vulcan, _his_ Vulcan. He wouldn't admit he was in love, but he was addicted.

Until he found some sort of direction, he was satisfied with being right where he was. As those lips trailed up along his neck, his jaw line, his mind faded somewhere else, as inopportune as it was.

As good as this felt, it was not his salvation. He wasn't sure the meaning behind this. Maybe he was in love, but he was afraid, yes, _afraid_, to settle down or settle in general. He needs someone who can put up with him, who can help him, save him, fix him. God. He hated this.

He felt cold and he worked his mind back to the plane where his body existed. He was alone. Well, at least, he was alone in the bed. He looked around, finding Spock by the end of the bed.

"Hey." He said stupidly.

"Yes?"

"Don't… go anywhere." He asked, getting off the bed, staring into Spock's now nearly lifeless black eyes. He saw hesitation there. He stepped closer. "I'm sorry about before." He tried to smile, to lighten the heavy mood surrounding them, but his smile faded. "This is just… _new_ for me."

"I am aware." Spock's answers were clipped.

"I know. But I promised I'd try. And I'm not trying really hard, am I?" He asked, still looking the Vulcan in the eyes. They were barely making it over this hurdle; he was weighing them down. He was sure of it. He stepped closer and reached for Spock's hand, stopping short. The Vulcan's hand met his, and he closed his eyes, leaning up and pressing his lips to Spock's. Pulling back slightly he tried to articulate the mess running inside of his head. "I need you to tell me something that will change me." He whispered. He really tried to express what he needed, but he was afraid that his meaning was lost.

"James."

He shivered and smiled at that.

"Spock." He responded breathlessly. He still couldn't find the right words and it was frustrating.

"What do you need?" Spock asked, something akin to concern in his voice, however dulled it was. It was there. And he could feel it.

"I don't know." He answered, shaking his head. He tightened his grip on Spock's fingers. He was comforted when his fingers were squeezed in return. He smiled again, though he had dropped his head, and the smile was almost hidden from Spock. Gently, the fingers of Spock's other hand, pressed under his chin, silently asking him to lift his head. He complied, somewhat unwillingly. "Do you want me?" He asked suddenly, as soon as their eyes locked. If he weren't so unsure of himself, he would have laughed at the look of shock evident in Spock's eyes. When Spock didn't say anything, he wished he hadn't said anything.

"Yes."

The word cut through him. He wasn't sure if it was exactly the answer he wanted.

"James, I love you." Each word was slow, as if there was apprehension that he would misunderstand. Those three words shocked the Hell out of him and he was unsure what to do with them. He started to pull his hand out of Spock's, barely taking a step backward before that thin hand gripped his tighter and one of Spock's arms wound around his waist to keep him close.

Pressed flush against the Vulcan, he felt his heart beating like mad against his stomach, echoing the state of his own. Spock's lips found the bite mark on his shoulder, pressing gently against it. Then Spock moved his lips over to where his neck met his shoulder, and bit down, leaving an obvious bruise and a perfect outline of his teeth, just above where his shirt _wouldn't _reach.

His knees felt weak and he couldn't help but smile. He was just claimed. He wrapped his free hand in Spock's hair and leaned in as close as he could, his lips right by Spock's ear.

He had found his direction.

"I love you too." He whispered as the sting of the air met with his newest bite mark and his lips were met by the sweetest he's ever tasted.


	18. Brown Eyes

_Brown Eyes_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Brown Eyes" by Lady Gaga.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: K+

* * *

I guess there wasn't really a point to staying here now. I tried to act like it didn't matter, like it didn't affect me. I couldn't do anything but hope that you didn't see that it _did_ affect me. It was really hard for me to walk away without saying something, defending myself or lashing out, but I kept my mouth shut for once and I just left.

I really hoped that you would say something to stop me, but you didn't. You watched me go. I wondered if it was like this the last time someone walked out on you. But at least that time, she left because she had something else to go to. I don't have anywhere to go after this.

I should have known this would be bad. When your relationship with her ended, you spent a lot more time with me, too much time with me, and I got lost in your brown eyes, finally warm to me and not so cold and so almost black as they were so often accustomed in my presence.

Sitting alone in my room for the first time in months I couldn't help but wonder what went wrong.

You were my everything, what we had was everything, but now everything is over. I lost you, and your brown eyes.

Your brown eyes, did you ever look at me? Sometimes, when I looked into your eyes, I saw her face, and it hurt me, but I tried not to see her, tried not to think that whenever you touched me, you thought of her.

Your relationship with her was everything to you, wasn't it? And I was nothing, even though I made you my entire world. It's no surprise that I lost myself in your brown eyes, letting myself idolize you the way I did.

Everything was over and we've had our final moments and everything we could have had is over and I have to realize that you never really cared about me. You've gotten everything you've needed out of me. I wondered if, tomorrow, you would go back to see her, see if she would change her mind and take you back, but I knew that, even if she should turn you down, I couldn't expect you to come back to me, but still, some shallow part of me hoped you would.

In spite of the fact that I was a rebound, a back up plan, until something better came around, until she came around, I couldn't help but cherish the moments I had with you, even though they were all stained by your memories of her.

Your eyes will only ever light up for her, never me, and that hurt to admit, and I fell back onto my mattress, and let out a long shaky breath as I stared meaninglessly at the ceiling, as if it had on it all the answers I needed.

For a while, I tried to hope that you would knock on the door that joined our two cabins via our shared bathroom, but that hope faded away after a while.

I never really knew what you were thinking when you were with me. You barely ever said anything to me. You only did what was absolutely necessary. You never touched me when it wouldn't accomplish anything. You never said anything unless it was to tell me that it was time to leave.

I always swallowed that hard feeling that rose up in my throat that always strangled me, and I held the words I knew you didn't want to hear. I always left without a word, and without looking back.

Tonight had been different though. I walked in, and your brown eyes were black. You studied me, as if you'd never seen me before, as if you were trying to solve me as if I were some equation, as if to understand why it was me there, and not her.

You spoke to me, you told me that you were done. That this meant nothing to you and was a waste. You didn't see the pain in my eyes. I swallowed hard and tried not to look at you. You didn't really give me the option to say something edgewise. You just looked me with those sad eyes, those analytic eyes. I tried to understand, but I couldn't.

I tried to see that nothing was over, that you weren't serious, but I could see that it was time to say goodbye and I needed to let you go. If I tried to hold on, I would only end up more lost for the effort and I was sick and tired of fighting. I realized that it was worthless to beg with you.

When I stared at you, I kept my mouth shut, though you looked at me, knowing that I wanted to say something. You waited patiently, your eyes fixed lifelessly on me, but I couldn't say what was on the tip of my tongue because I didn't want to hear what I knew you would say to me to finally ruin everything.

I kept those words to myself and I left, and here I am.

I didn't care when there was a knock on the door; I just pretended I didn't hear it. It was only going to be Bones, I rationalized, and I just didn't have the time. I just continued to stare at the ceiling, occasionally checking the clock. I fell asleep some time around two-thirty in the morning, and woke up to the alarm blaring loudly the sound echoing off the walls and my insides like it never had before, as if to only accentuate that I was hollow.

I jumped up, rushing into and out of the bathroom, knowing you were already gone, and I knew where you'd be. I tried not to imagine what you were saying to her, but I couldn't help it and my heart ached under the hot water I tried not to pretend felt like your hands on my skin.

When I walked onto the Bridge, it seemed like it usually did, but I just couldn't bring myself to turn to look over my shoulder, afraid to see your eyes, once again brown as you looked at her. I didn't want to see it. I don't think I could stand it.

When you addressed me, I acknowledged you without turning around, forgoing etiquette to protect myself from you. I could almost hear it in your tone your disapproving, but that didn't matter much. I only talked to you when I was addressed, and when I was sure the question you had asked was sufficiently answered, I ceased talking. When you asked me a personal question, I ignored you, leaning forward to ask Sulu something, even though I knew the answer before I asked, and I still didn't turn around, even when your voice got that edge to it, the same edged tone you had with me last night, as if you were losing your patience with me, but you were Vulcan. You couldn't lose your patience, right? At least, that's what you would have said. I couldn't fathom why you would care if I were feeling alright or not.

The shift was uncomfortable, and when it came time for a break, I opted instead to remain where I was, watching everyone silently leave, catching some sideways glances that seemed worried for me, but no one said anything, and I was glad for that. I thought I was alone, and I got up, walking around the navigation console to stare out into space through the vid screen.

Watching the way everything stretched forward infinitely, forever, reminded me of how I would only be able to reach so far, how limited I was. I continued to stare, thinking about everything now that everything was over.

If I had made more of an effort when we were together, would it have changed where I stood now? If I had gotten everything off of my chest, laid it all out, even if you crushed it all, would I actually be able to let go? Perhaps. I wish you had devastated me, but you didn't. And the end was so ambiguous that I didn't know where to go now, but everything I held for you, every word and emotion that was for you, was still harbored within me, and it, too, had nowhere to go, and it's restriction meant for me that I would never be truly able to get past this.

I kept my eyes forward, even when I heard footsteps. I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. I just didn't care.

When it was you who came up and stood by my side, I turned away, but before I could leave, you asked me to stay. I had no reason to listen to you, but I stayed anyways, though I refused to look at you, turning only to face the vid screen again.

You asked me something, but I didn't really listen. I clenched my hands into fists and released my fingers, doing so a few times, still looking ahead. In the corner of my eye, I saw you turn towards me, but I didn't do the same.

I asked you what you wanted. Your eyes narrowed. I could feel what I thought to be contempt bore into me with your gaze. I sighed, but didn't say anything else for a while.

You turned away after a while.

I told you that I didn't hold it against you, what you did to me. This time, you turned fully towards me, and I could almost swear a little brown seeped into your eyes, but I couldn't tell because I didn't want to get lost in your eyes again. I told you that I understood, even though I didn't, and I said that though I wish it could have been different, I accepted the way it was.

Your hand inched toward me, as if you wanted to touch me, but you retracted your hand, clenching it tightly at your side.

You still didn't say anything and I walked away from you again, but you asked me to stop. This time, I didn't, and I left the Bridge and you standing there, though I didn't see your face, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't look back.

Later that evening, I was leaving Officer's Mess having confided everything into Bones, knowing he would be able to say something to me that would wake me out of my stupor, but he couldn't find the words, he just rested his hand on my shoulder, and that was good enough.

It's strange how small the ship can feel when you're trying not to run into someone. I heard you talking to someone in the hallway, and in spite of the fact that it would take twice as long to get back to my quarters, I went in the opposite direction from you. When someone called my name, my skin crawled, knowing that now, you knew I was here, and I couldn't stand having to see you right now, because everything was starting to sink in and everything that meant something to me was over and I just didn't want to have to say something to you.

I hurried that conversation and continued on my way, but you caught me on the turbolift, and when your fingers found the emergency stop button, my stomach sank to the floor and I begged you to spare me. I reached for the button to restart the lift, but you stood in the way, and I sighed, and fell back against the opposite wall.

I snapped at you then, asking you how it went with her. The acid in my voice made your eyes narrow, but it wasn't in anger, though I didn't see it that way. I told you that I couldn't stand to be just the one waiting around for you when things fell through, and even though my voice cracked, I ordered you to restart the lift, or so help me.

You defied me then, even in the face of my empty threat, and you asked me what was wrong.

My voice croaked, and I was so angry with myself, but I couldn't stop the words now. I condemned you. There wasn't a nicer way to describe what I had said. I cursed you and blamed you and I told you that it _hurt me in every possible way_ to be standing here with you right now. I resisted the urge to punch you.

Your eyes were wide, and they were… _brown_.

And they were for me. But my eyes narrowed.

I asked you what game you were playing and your voice dropped, deep and upset, even though you would claim that it wasn't an emotion I heard reverberating in your words.

You asked me what I would say if you were to apologize, and I so unceremoniously told you to go to Hell, because you and your brown eyes broke me and I didn't want to be her replacement anymore and if she didn't want you anymore, neither did I, and it was just going to have to be tough shit.

I pushed past you then to the control panel, and you stepped out of the way, though when my ear was within centimetres of your mouth, you whispered that you were sorry and that I didn't deserve the way you had treated me.

I told you that you didn't deserve the way I had loved you, even though I still did, I used the past tense, and watched your face contort ever-so-slightly at my words, and any pleasure I should have gotten from hurting you never came.

Everything was everything, but everything was over and it could have been everything, but you never wanted it to be.

Was it too late for you and your brown eyes? I tried to convince myself that it was so, but the softness I saw in those eyes made me question my resolve.

I told you that I wasn't ready to forgive you and that you would have to prove it to me that you wouldn't try to use me again. I looked you in the eyes for the first time since last night, and they were so soft and sad. I knew my eyes were harsh, and that reflected in your eyes. I asked you if you really wanted _me_ and your sad, brown eyes, flashed and you said yes.

But when the lift doors opened, I stepped out, breaking our glances and walked down the hallway.

But you didn't just let me walk away this time. You didn't follow me or grab me, but you called my name and I turned to see you standing there as the doors started to close and I told you that if you really wanted me, you would have to work for it, and the slightest smile reached your eyes and you said you would do everything, just as the doors closed.


	19. Alejandro

_Alejandro_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "Alejandro" by Lady Gaga. I've been making quite the villain out of our Vulcan and I decided it was the Captain's turn.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: T

* * *

He knew he couldn't do this anymore. He sighed and walked out, not knowing what to say. He had taken this a bit too far, and he tried to make himself regret what he had done, but there was just something inside of him that prevented such a thing. He didn't look back; he didn't need to. He could see the mess he was leaving behind in his mind, the image clear. Everyone reacted to betrayal the same way.

He just wished that his secret hadn't been found out.

Yet, he was grateful, even though he caused so much pain here tonight, that at least one person could see him for what he was and hopefully be able to move on from him. He really hoped that was the case.

He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets and walked out, trying to ignore the voice behind him that finally sounded so weak.

He wouldn't be able to look back, afraid to pull that broken man back into a lie he couldn't escape from.

Somewhere, buried with everything else he's always tried to forget, where all his scars lay, he knew the person he was leaving behind _loved_ him, something no one else in this entire world had ever expressed towards him. It made his heart twist, but he couldn't help that he couldn't return it, not in the way he should. By leaving tonight, he knew he was only doing what was the best, but he hid whatever love he could confess secretly with the man intently watching his back as he retreated.

He didn't want to admit it, but he had that man wrapped around his finger. Love always had that quality that made you so vulnerable. He tried again to make himself regret what he had done, but he couldn't, and he shook his head dejectedly, heading down the hall, punching the code in without thinking.

His best friend was sitting at his desk doing some paperwork when he came down on him, straddling his hips and locking their lips together. Bones didn't ask questions; he just seemed to _know_ that something was wrong and just let go of the argument and protest in his head.

Jim couldn't get enough. His hands roamed under McCoy's shirt, feeling the heated skin under his palms and fingertips as his tongue wrestled with the doctor's, his breath coming short and ragged. He was desperate and angry and quickly pulled their shirts off, tossing them somewhere behind his friend, bringing his lips to that place where the jaw line meets the ear, but he remembers that it was Spock who was sensitive there and moves on, trying to focus, but he couldn't. McCoy's hands slide up along his back, causing him to shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin and he leaned in closer, pressing their bared chests together as their lips met a second time.

They made quick work of fully undressing, and soon Jim couldn't see anything but white and his let his mind shut down for a while, but when it was all over, his best friend told him what he was doing was wrong.

He knew it was true. He just didn't want to hear it.

He cleaned himself up as best he could without a shower and redressed, heading for the door. Bones called him back, but he couldn't hear it and he left.

He wandered the halls for a while after that, finally settling on the Observation Deck, not yet ready to return to his quarters even though the night was slowly dwindling and he would eventually run out of time.

He expected to be alone this late, but he was met with the unwelcome sound of heels echoing throughout the large room, reverberating off of the walls and his empty heart, and he turned to see Janice, her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She ran her hands up his arms, whispering endearments he couldn't listen to with the way he felt, and he told her that now wasn't a good time.

She leaned up and kissed him, her arms slipping around his neck, but he gently unwound her and backed away, still holding her wrists delicately in his calloused hands. She looked at him with a bewildered expression, eyes wide and beautiful. He only shook his head and released her. She studied him for a while, and with angry tears in her eyes, she turned around and walked away, leaving him alone again.

He spent the entire night there, staring out into nothing, unsure of what to do. He was starting to lose whatever tentative grasp he had on everything. He was losing everything, and at this point, he was going to have to make a decision. He had to choose what he was going to do before nothing was left.

He was shaking and was glad for once that he wasn't on Alpha shift. He finally retreated to his quarters, careful to avoid conversation. Knowing Spock was indeed on Alpha, and undoubtedly already on the Bridge, he stepped into the shower trying to wash off the horrid feeling that rested on his skin that made him feel unclean. He scrubbed his skin until it went red, and stood under the water until the shower automatically turned off, and he collapsed onto the floor of the stall, staring at the sterile walls, trying to make sense of all of this.

He sat back, feeling the controls of the shower digging into his back and he focused on that as he tried to ground himself. He was so angry with himself that he didn't know what to do, and he just stayed there.

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but there was a knock on the door, and it startled him awake. He ran his hand over his face, and shivered, cold as the hot water on his skin and the steam in the room cooled his skin. He rapped his head against the wall behind him, the movement driving the controls further into his skin and he jumped forward, feeling the spot, checking for blood, but there was nothing and he pushed himself up, groaning as his muscles fought against the movement after having been stuck in such an uncomfortable position for so long.

He left the bathroom, ignoring the knock that came again and he checked the chronometer, seeing that he had barely a half an hour before his shift started. He pulled his clothes on and stepped out of the room, sparing a passing glance at the door he had walked through yesterday before his escapade. He held his hands clenched tight at his sides as he passed and continued on to the Bridge.

He fought the urge to keep looking over his shoulder because he knew Spock wasn't going to be there, and that was probably for the best now anyways. Somewhere along the line, he starting thinking about last night, and he felt so _wicked_ about the way he left things. He had barely said anything, listening to the broken accusation and the pain he caused, but not denying the information, nor apologizing for it. Those dark eyes looked so betrayed as he stood there. Spock didn't say anything after that, and just looked at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't, he just left.

God.

And why, _why_, after everything, did he have to love him? Dammit, karma's a bitch.

He ran his fingers through his hair roughly, trying to ignore the passes Janice made at him during the shift. After a few denials, she gave up.

When the shift ended, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He paced in the hallway, knowing he looked completely out of his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for admittance, and he couldn't bring himself to just brush it off. He needed to do something about the guilt rising up inside of him.

He ended up falling against the wall in between their doors, sliding to the floor, slamming his fist onto the ground and biting his tongue to avoid shouting or screaming, or whatever it was that was rising in his throat.

He thought, sardonically, that now he was stuck on the other side of unrequited love, Spock's only revenge against the treason he had performed against him. He deserved this. And McCoy had been right about this from the start. He had said that he would only end up with too much to handle and no way of getting out. He was truly stuck and that was the worst feeling.

The door to his right slid open, and he fought the urge to look that way, even when his name was called. He was helped up onto his feet, and though he hid it well, he felt as if he were about to collapse again to the floor, his contempt for himself making his knees weak.

Spock asked him if he was alright. He scoffed, and though the gesture was directed at himself, Spock didn't see it that way. He looked upset, as upset as he would let himself look out here in the hallway, but Jim knew he was troubled.

He felt like he was on fire. His skin felt hot, too hot, and everything hurt. He broke away and headed for his door, but Spock followed him and followed inside. Spock's hands grabbed his wrists, and the blaze there deadened. He looked up with wide blue eyes, and tried to retract his arms.

He asked Spock to let him go when his own efforts failed. He said that he needed to burn from the inside out; it was the only way to fix this. But Spock told him that he didn't have to be a martyr. He smiled, though it was twisted. That was exactly what he needed to be. It was the only way to make right what he had done. He would try to burn it all of out of him, devastating everything in the hopes of starting over again.

But Spock wouldn't hear it. In something so uncharacteristic, he _held_ him, cradled him against that fiery chest that killed the flames inside of him, putting them out to a weak puff of smoke that wound around his throat and brought tears to his eyes. He shakily drew his arms around the Vulcan, pulling them as close as possible and words choked him.

His broken voice whispered out an apology, holding Spock tightly. He said that he was sorry for what he had done. It had taken him a long time to admit, but it was better late than never. He was let go then, and let Spock take a step back, himself taking one in turn.

Jim said out loud, mustering as much conviction as he could, that he loved him. He was afraid that meant nothing now, but Spock's eyes softened and he felt that perhaps all wasn't lost.


	20. So Happy I Could Die

_So Happy I Could Die_

* * *

AN: Inspired by "So Happy I Could Die" by Lady Gaga. Possibly a quite fitting end.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: M

* * *

He loved him. It took a long time to admit, but he couldn't deny it anymore. The way he moved, that graceful, fluid manner, it was hard _not_ to stare. His voice, the way that it seemed to wrap around him, that quality to it that calmed him, as if Spock's emotional control was infectious through the sound.

He wasn't obsessed. He didn't form obsessions. But he could swear he was damn close, though he would never let himself to compromise their friendship, with everything he's fought for. His love wasn't worth enough to jeopardize everything. He would be able to hold it back, he knew, so long as he was able to stay right here, where he belonged.

But in the silence of the night, those long nights, always growing longer when he would wake up in the middle of the darkness, with every inch of his skin flushed and he was so _hot_ and even the brush of his own fingertips made his body quiver.

Tonight was one of those nights.

But it wasn't the same dream. There was something dark in it something powerfully _hurtful_ and it was frightening and it pulled him under, and he tried to find the surface, drowning in this horrible blackness, but the fire on his skin, finding every sensitive inch, pulling moans from him in spite of his fear.

His father's death flashed in front of him; the car going off the cliff played before him, he could feel his fingers and arms strain to pull himself up; Nero; the _Jellyfish_; Delta Vega, the meld. Everything shot through him and tears welled in his eyes as his back arched into the touch.

He woke up then from the lie and he fisted the sheets, so shaky and breathless, and felt actual tears on his face and he wiped them away with the back of his arm. His body felt as if it were charged with electricity, every muscle tightening with each breath, each thought and residual feeling from the dream, or the nightmare.

His hand trailed down his skin, shivers rising up in response to the touch, his own fingers cold than those from his dream, but they would be enough. They would have to be, just like they always end up being. Just good enough.

His body tensed as he stroked himself, faster and faster as he got closer, his back arched completely off the sheets. His voice cut through the silence heavily, the moan echoing in the silence. The tension inside him quelled, but didn't fully disappear. He cleaned himself up as best he could, pulling on a pair of boxers before slipping into the shower, hoping to ease away the rest of the tension in his body.

He didn't really think that the sound of the shower running might disturb his First Officer. He didn't even know what time it was. He had no sense of time. He probably drowned it in alcohol in his younger years, and it's never fully recovered. When he finally turned off the water, he hadn't really expected the knock on the door. His heart skipped a beat, and he so ungracefully tripped, falling on the floor with a heavy thud.

The door slid open then, and he tried to push himself up off the floor, but he cracked his head on the sink as he fell and he was so dizzy. Spock caught him just as his arms gave out and he was about to fall on his face.

He could smell his blood and he laughed, bringing his arm up to feel the wound. Spock seemed utterly puzzled at his reaction, but didn't say anything. Somehow in his grace, he managed to call McCoy, who rushed in and inspected him, checking for signs of a concussion, which it turned out he did have. He wouldn't be able to go to sleep for a while, and Spock offered to stay with him, even though he silently prayed McCoy would suggest otherwise.

Bones didn't seem to hear his prayers and instead headed back toward his quarters to get back to 'sawing a log,' but not before jabbing another hypo in his neck. The wound throbbed and the headache raging inside his brain made it hard to discern what was going on, but he could swear, pressed against the aching spot on his neck, were two delicate fingertips. They dulled the pain and he shut his eyes and started to fall asleep, but Spock's voice jerked him awake

He grumbled and tried to roll away, covering his ears, but Spock wasn't having any of that, apparently taking McCoy's task more seriously than he anticipated. He ceded and lay on his back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, woken up every few seconds by the sound of his name spoken into his ear carefully and slowly.

He wished he could have been lucid for this, but it was probably for the best because the last thing he needed was to be aroused right now. But in this moment, his drunk on pain mind was happy where he was, just close enough, the closest he'd ever get to his dreams.

"Are you troubled, James?" Spock asked suddenly, his voice loud in the quiet room.

"I'm fine." He answered, still staring straight up. "Why?"

"I could not help but observe that you seem to be suffering from an inability to sleep." Spock stated so scientifically. Jim sighed a little, wishing there had been something more in that voice. If Spock noticed, he didn't acknowledge.

"Yeah, that would probably be the only reason I would be in the shower at…" He looked briefly at the chronometer then back at the ceiling. "Three in the morning." He finished.

Spock moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking a minute to look at the ceiling as if to ascertain what it was he had been staring at all this time.

"James, what are you looking at?" The Vulcan asked, the calculated precision still in his tone.

"I'm looking at the ceiling." He answered honestly. In the corner of his eye he saw Spock's eyebrow arch and he burst into laughter. "There doesn't have to be a deep meaning to everything. I can't see straight anyways. Try me." He said, sitting up, holding his head in his hands at the blood rush and pain that tore through his head. Looking up his vision was double. "Whoa."

"You should lie back down." Spock said, pushing gently against his shoulders to emphasize the point. Those thin fingers brushed a spot on his shoulder that was so sensitive and it drove thoughts of previous dreams through his mind and he arched forward into the touch, though when he realized what he had done, he collapsed back onto the mattress and willed to just be absorbed into the sheets, his face burning with the blood rushing to his cheeks, betraying the embarrassment and worry he was trying to hide. And what the Hell? James T. Kirk did _not_ blush like a schoolgirl.

Spock's fingers brushed the spot again and even in his pain-induced stupor, he knew it was done on purpose that time. His own fingers trailed up Spock's neck, knotting in that perfect black hair as he used his other arm to prop himself up enough to kiss the Vulcan. Spock was stiff and Jim's muscles tensed, as if preparing for the shock of being struck.

But Spock didn't hit him. There was no aggression in his movements, but Jim couldn't help but flinch when Spock's hands reached around him, holding him up, as if he knew that his strength was giving out again.

Jim kissed him with more intensity then, his other hand pressed against Spock's neck, feeling the pulse beat under his palm, soothing and erotic at the same time. His eyes started to slide shut and Spock shook him to keep them open. He broke the kiss after that, resting his head against Spock's chest, ear to his collarbone. It was still weird when he didn't feel the heart beating under his ear, even though he knew exactly where Spock's heart was.

He dropped his hand to that very spot, but Spock pulled his hand away, as if he knew how that steady rhythm affected him. He rolled his eyes. Spock was taking this way too seriously.

And he was tired. _Really_ tired. He started to nod off again, and right on cue, Spock shifted, waking him up and he groaned.

"Cut it out." He mumbled, nearly incoherently. He nuzzled his face against Spock's chest; something about the warmth that emanated was so reassuring, it made the images of his nightmare fade away. Taking a deep breath, a scent so obviously and solely Spock filled his lungs and all the tension in him that was leftover melted away.

But, ruining the moment with perfect poise, Spock pushed him back onto the sheet, oddly cold in comparison, and his eyes drifted back up to the ceiling. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He yawned and he continued to rub his face, trying to keep himself awake.

Spock was still so controlled. He couldn't fathom why that was as much of a shock to him as it was. It made him laugh again.

But he couldn't help but think what it would be like to see _under_ that control. What Spock looked like when he gave in, when he opened up his heart and his mind. He knew that it would never be him to see this; he didn't really deserve it. That thought doesn't hurt him as much as it used to; he's sort of resigned himself to it. But whatever just happened was not helping. He was sure he was delirious. It was the only explanation, and easily written off as the effects of a concussion and whatever the Hell Bones' had given him before he left.

But whatever had happened, he couldn't explain away that it made him happy. He could admit that to himself.

"I think you can go now. I don't think I'll be getting any sleep tonight." He said, feeling the nightmare start to creep in the peripherals of his mind, the flashes and images and words and feelings slowly pressing inwards and he was starting to feel like he was being crushed.

But Spock didn't go anywhere.

"I'd prefer it if you'd leave." He said after awhile, hoping the words didn't sound as harsh as he'd heard them. Still, he was disobeyed. "I mean it." He pressed, though there wasn't anything but exhaustion in his voice to back up his threat. The images moved in closer. Spock eventually got up. He felt alone and the nightmare rushed into his consciousness and something that didn't belong to him flashed across his eyes; death. His First Officer was trapped on the other side of something.

He sat bolt upright, and thrashed as if trying to break the glass in his vision, calling the same name over and over again. He felt hands on his arms, stilling his rampage and lying him back down, even as his mind was still racing and his heart was trying to keep up.

His eyes started to focus, and they focused on Spock, the faintest amount of worry in those dark eyes. Something that wasn't calculated. His breathing was still a little shallow, but it evened out quickly, and his heart slowed down, and he relaxed into the mattress slightly, knowing that whatever he saw wasn't true. It hadn't happened. Spock was _here_ and he was okay.

"On second thought, mind staying here for a while longer?" He asked, his usual smile spreading across his face. Spock's eyes softened and he released his grasp on Jim's arms. He allowed Jim to guide him onto the bed, let Jim curl up against him. "If you don't tell Bones, I won't." Jim remarked before passing out.

Spock couldn't fight the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, resting his hand in Jim's hair, his fingers twining around the locks loosely, trying not to wake his Captain up, knowing this was probably the first time in weeks that he'd been able to sleep like this.

There was something about the weakness of that usually aggressive and arrogant face in sleep that was utterly fascinating to him. He laid there, focused only on the sensations caused by Jim's breathing; the rise and fall of that powerful chest, the warm breath that passed from Jim's mouth.

Staring up at the ceiling he still couldn't surmise what was so interesting about it.

"_Spock."_

Jim whispered in his sleep softly, and again, he couldn't fight the small smile.

* * *

AN: So that's it guys! I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did!

Thank you to everyone who favorited, reviewed and subscribed to this!


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